32404	----	[Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed to correct an obvious error is noted at the end of this ebook. This reprinted by D. A. Talboys, Oxford, 1841.] SECOND THOUGHTS ARE BEST: OR A FURTHER IMPROVEMENT Of a Late SCHEME TO PREVENT _STREET ROBBERIES_: BY WHICH Our Streets will be strongly guarded, and so gloriously illuminated, that any part of London will be as safe and pleasant at Midnight as at Noonday; and Burglary totally impracticable: With _Some Thoughts for suppressing Robberies in all the Public Roads of England, &c._ Humbly Offered for the Good of his Country, submitted to the Consideration of the Parliament, and dedicated to his sacred Majesty King GEORGE II. By ANDREW MORETON, Esq. _LONDON._ Printed for W. MEADOWS, at the _Angel_ in _Cornhill_; and sold by J. ROBERTS, in _Warwick-Lane_. 1729. [_Price Six Pence._ TO THE KING'S Most Excellent MAJESTY, SACRED AND MOST AUGUST! Permit a loyal subject, in the sincerity of his heart, to press through the crowds of courtiers who surround your royal person, and lay his little mite, humbly offered for the public welfare, at your majesty's feet. Happy is it for me, as well as the whole kingdom, we have a king of such humanity and affability; a king naturalized to us, a king who loves us, a king in whose person as well as mind, the whole hero appears: the king of our hearts; the king of our wishes! Those who are dissatisfied with such a monarch, deserve to be abandoned of God, and have the devil sent to reign over them. Yet such there are, (pity they should wear human forms, or breathe the free air of Britain!) who are so scandalously fickle, that if God himself was to reign, they would yearn after their darling monarch the prince of darkness. These are they who fly in the face of majesty, who so abuse the liberty of the press, that from a benefit it becomes an evil, and demands immediate regulation. Not against your majesty only, but against many of your loyal subjects, are arrows shot in the dark, by lurking villains who wound the reputations of the innocent in sport. Our public newspapers, which ought to contain nothing but what is instructive and communicative, being now become public nuisances, vehicles of personal, private slander, and scandalous pasquins. Let the glory be yours, most gracious sovereign! to suppress this growing evil; and if any hints from your most faithful subject can be of the least use, I live but to serve, to admire, and pray for your majesty. Who am, Most gracious Sovereign, Your Majesty's Most loyal, most dutiful, most obedient subject and servant, ANDREW MORETON. THE PREFACE. Nothing is more easy than to discover a thing already found out. This is verified in me and that anonymous gentleman, whom the public prints have lately complimented with a Discovery to Prevent Street Robberies; though, by the by, we have only his vain _ipse dixit_, and the ostentatious outcry of venal newswriters in his behalf. But to strip him of his borrowed plumes, these are to remind the public, that about six months ago, in a treatise, entituled, Augusta Triumphans: or, the Way to make London the most flourishing City in the Universe, I laid down a plain and practicable scheme for the total suppression and prevention of street robberies, which scheme has been approved of by several learned and judicious persons. Oh! but say the advocates of this second-hand schemist, our project is to be laid before the parliament. Does that make his better, or mine worse? Have not many silly projects been laid before parliaments ere now? Admit it be not the same (as I have but too much reason to fear it is,) cannot the members of both houses read print as well as written hand? Or does he think they are so prejudiced to dislike a thing the worse for being offered without view of gain? I trust Andrew Moreton's scheme, generously offered for the public good, will meet with as fair a reception as that of this hireling projector. Mine is already published; let him generously follow my example, and no doubt, if his scheme be preferred, the government will reward him. If my antagonist be necessitous, where is the merit? he does it for his own sake, not for the public. If he be not necessitous, what a sordid wretch is he to withhold his scheme for lucre? putting it up at public sale; so that if you do not give him his price you shall not have it. Some people, indeed, are so fond of mysteries they run down everything that is plain and intelligible; they love darkness, whispers, and freemasonry, despising whatever comes in the shape of a pamphlet, be it never so useful or commendable. But in spite of prejudice, truth is the standard by which I hope all honest and impartial men will judge me. Though I must confess I am not a little piqued to be jockeyed out of my labours, yet not to be behindhand with my gentleman in the clouds, who would have the parliament buy his pig in a poke, and build up his fortune at my expense, I have so amply enlarged and amended my scheme, that it is now scarce like the same. I have taken in everything possible of comprehension or practice; nor have I left him room to edge in one single hint. I have debated the objections of divers wise and learned men, and corrected my project accordingly; so that, on comparison, my first thoughts will appear but as a rude and imperfect sketch, only valuable in that it gave the idea of this more laboured and finished performance, on which I pledge my whole reputation, being ready to stand or fall by its success. In order to which, I have presented copies of this book to the king and queen's most excellent majesties, to several of the lords spiritual, and divers honourable and worthy members of both houses, and time must show whose scheme shall have the precedence. In the mean time I stand prepared for the sneers of those who despise everything and everybody but their own dear selves, as also the objections of the puzzle causes, who will turry-lugg a thing out of all sense and meaning, and by the cloudiness of their explanations darken what is most plain and obvious. My business is to go straight forward, and let the end crown the work. If men of sense approve me, I need not value the laughter of fools, whose very approbation is scandal; for if a thinking man is to be laughed out of every good intention or invention, nothing will ever be done for the public good. SECOND THOUGHTS, &c. The principal encouragement and opportunity given to our street robbers is, that our streets are so poorly watched; the watchmen, for the most part, being decrepit, superannuated wretches, with one foot in the grave and the other ready to follow; so feeble that a puff of breath can blow them down. Poor crazy mortals! much fitter for an almshouse than a watchhouse. A city watched and guarded by such animals is wretchedly watched indeed. Nay, so little terror do they carry with them, that hardy thieves make a mere jest of them, and oftentimes oblige even the very watchman who should apprehend, to light them in their roguery. And what can a poor creature do, in terror of his life, surrounded by a pack of ruffians, and no assistance near? Add to this, that our rogues are grown more wicked than ever, and vice in all kinds is so much winked at, that robbery is accounted a petty crime. We take pains to puff them up in their villany, and thieves are set out in so amiable a light in the Beggar's Opera, it has taught them to value themselves on their profession rather than to be ashamed of it. There was some cessation of street robberies, from the time of Bunworth and Blewitt's execution, until the introduction of this pious opera. Now we find the Cartouchian villanies revived, and London, that used to be the most safe and peaceful city in the universe, is now become a scene of rapine and danger. If some of Cartouch's gang be not come over hither to instruct our thieves, we have, doubtless, a Cartouch of our own, and a gang which, if not suppressed, may be full as pernicious as was ever Cartouch's, and London may be as dangerous as Paris, if due care be not taken. Not content with the mischief done by the Beggar's Opera, we must have a Quaker's Opera, forsooth, of much more evil tendency than the former; for in this Jack Shepherd is made the hero of the drama, and runs through such a scene of riot and success, that but too many weak minds have been drawn away, and many unwary persons so charmed with his appearance on the stage, dressed in that elegant manner, and his pockets so well lined, they have forthwith commenced street-robbers or housebreakers; so that every idle fellow, weary of honest labour, need but fancy himself a Macheath or a Shepherd, and there is a rogue made at once. Since, therefore, example, has such force, the stage ought to be reformed, and nothing exhibited but what might be represented before a bishop. They may be merry and wise: let them take the Provoked Husband for a pattern. A good physician seeks the cause, and weighs the symptoms before he proceeds to prescribe; and if we trace this evil from its radix, we shall find a cause antecedent to the two operas aforesaid: namely, accursed Geneva, the bane and ruin of our lower class of people. Those who deny an inferior class of people to be necessary in a body politic, contradict reason and experience itself; since they are most useful when industrious, and equally pernicious when lazy. By their industry our manufactures, trade, and commerce, are carried on. The merchant in his counting-house, and the captain in his cabin, would find but little employment, were it not that many hands carried on the different branches of the concerns they superintended. But now so far are our common people infatuated with Geneva, that half the work is not done now as formerly. It debilitates and enervates them, nor are they near so strong and healthy as formerly. So that if this abuse of Geneva be not stopped, we may go whoop for husbandmen, labourers, &c.; trade must consequently stand still, and the credit of the nation sink. Nor is the abatement of the excise, though very considerable, and most worthy notice, any ways comparable to the corruption of manners, destruction of health, and all the train of evils we are threatened with from pernicious Geneva. We will suppose a man able to maintain himself and family by his trade, and at the same time to be a Geneva drinker. This fellow first makes himself incapable of working by being continually drunk; which runs him behindhand, so that he either pawns, or neglects his work, for which reason nobody will employ him. At last, fear of arrests, his own hunger, the cries of a family for bread, his natural desire to support an irregular life, and a propense hatred to labour, turn but too many an honest tradesman into an arrant desperate rogue. And these are commonly the means that furnish us with thieves and villains in general. Thus is a man, who might be useful in a body politic, rendered obnoxious to the same: so that if this trade of wickedness goes on, they will increase upon us so much that we shall not dare to stir out of our habitations; nay, it will be well if they arrive not to the impudence of plundering our houses at noonday. Where is the courage of the English nation, that a gentleman, with six or seven servants, shall be robbed by one single highwayman? Yet we have lately had instances of this; and for this we may thank our effeminacy, our toupee wigs, and powdered pates, our tea, and other scandalous fopperies; and, above all, the disuse of noble and manly sports, so necessary to a brave people, once in vogue, but now totally lost amongst us. Let not the reader think I run from my subject if I search the bottom of the distemper before I propose a cure, which having done, though indeed but slightly, for this is an argument could be carried to a much greater length, I proceed to the purpose in manner following:-- Let the watch be composed of stout able-bodied men, and of those a sufficient number, that is to say, a watchman to every forty houses, twenty on one side of the way, and twenty on the other; for it is observable that a man cannot well see distinctly beyond the extent of twenty houses in a row; if it is a single row, and no opposite houses, the charge must be greater, or their safety less. This man should be elected and paid by the housekeepers themselves, to prevent misapplication and abuse, so much complained of in the distribution of the public money. He should be allowed ten shillings per annum by each housekeeper, which at forty houses, as above specified, amounts to 20_l._ per annum, almost treble to what is at present allowed; and yet most housekeepers are charged at least 2s. 6d. a quarter to the watch, whose beat is, generally speaking, little less than the compass of half a mile. What a shame it is that at least 100_l._ should be collected in some beats, and the poor watchman should not have the one-tenth part of the money? And this I leave to the consideration of any housekeeper who will take the pains to inquire into the extent of a watchman's beat, and after that cast up what is collected in the said beat, as they say for the watch. But this is a small abuse in comparison of other parochial misapplications, for a proof of which I refer my reader to a treatise of mine, entituled, Parochial Tyranny. This salary of 20_l._ per annum is something of encouragement, and a pretty settlement for a poor man, who with frugality may live decently thereon, and by due rest be enabled to give due and vigilant attendance; that is to say, from evening dusk to morning light. If a housekeeper break, or a house is empty, the poor watchman ought not to suffer, the deficiency should be made up by the housekeepers remaining. The watch thus stationed, strengthened, and encouraged, let every watchman be armed with firearms and sword; and let no watchman stand above twenty doors distant from his fellow. This has already been put in practice in the parish of St. Giles's in the Fields, and has had so good an effect that it is hoped other parishes will follow their example, which redounds not a little to the credit of our project. Let each watchman be provided with a horn, to sound an alarm, or in time of danger; and let it be made penal, if not felony, for any but a watchman to sound a horn in and about the city, from the time of their going on, to that of their going off. I know an objection will be here made on account of the postboys, to obviate which, I had thoughts of a bell, but that would be too ponderous and troublesome for a watchman to carry, besides his arms and lantern; whereas a horn is portable, always ready, and most alarming. Let the postboys therefore use some other signal, since this is most convenient to this more material purpose. They may carry a bell in a holster with ease, and give notice by that, as well as those who collect the letters. That the watchmen may see from one end of their walks to the other, let a convenient number of lamps be set up, and those not of the convex kind, which blind the eyes, and are of no manner of use; they dazzle, but give no distinct light, and further, rather than prevent robberies. Many persons, deceived and blinded by these _ignes fatui_, have been run over by coaches, carts, &c., people stumbling more, even under these very lamps, than in the dark. In short, they are most unprofitable lights, and, in my opinion, rather abuses than benefits. Besides, I see no reason why every ten housekeepers cannot find a lamp among themselves, which would be four lamps in a beat, and let their watchman dress it, rather than fatten a crew of directors. But we are so fond of companies, it is a wonder we have not our shoes blacked by one, and a set of directors made rich at the expense of our very black-guards. The watch ought to be in view, as well as in the hearing of each other, or they may be overpowered, and much danger may happen. The streets being thus gloriously illuminated, and so strongly guarded by stout and able fellows, well armed and well paid, all within the view of one another, proceed we to secure all by-turnings, courts, alleys, lanes, &c., which may favour a street-robber's escape, and make our project ineffectual. A street, court, lane, alley, or other place, where the number of houses or poverty of the inhabitants will not afford a watchman on the terms before mentioned, should be gated in, and the inhabitants let in and out by the watchman of the street. Where there are even but twelve houses in a court, and the inhabitants people of credit, they may have a separate watch to themselves, as is practised in Boswell-court by Lincoln's-inn-fields, Angel-court in Throckmorton-street, and many other places in London. This I think an unexceptionable way to secure the cities and suburbs of London and Westminster. The only difficulty I can conceive is, that persons after dark may now and then go a little way round about by keeping the street way, but the pleasantness and safety occasioned by the lights and watch aforesaid, make ample amends. Let those go through byways, and in the dark, whose deeds are so; I am for providing security for honest men, and obstacle for rogues. And now we have put a stop to their roguery, let us endeavour to suppress the rogues themselves; in order to which I shall begin with their harlots, who are, generally speaking, the first motives to their villany, and egg them on to all manner of mischief. And these are generally servant wenches, who stroll from place to place, and at last, weary of working, throw themselves on the public. To maintain these creatures, many a man turns rogue. It behoves the government, therefore, to oblige all young wenches to keep in service. Masters and mistresses ought likewise to see that servants of both sexes go not a rambling when sent to church, but that they keep good hours; for many have been ruined by junketing and staying out, instead of being at church or at home. Our common women ought to be restrained in the liberties they have lately taken; they openly swear and talk so obscenely, it is a shame to a Christian country. Having fully handled this topic in two treatises, viz., Everybody's Business is Nobody's Business, and Parochial Tyranny, I shall not tire my readers with repetition, but referring them to the treatises themselves, return to my subject, which is,-- After we have reformed the ladies, let us take their sparks in hand. And first, let all shoe-cleaners, I mean boys and sturdy vagrants, be suppressed, according to my scheme in Everybody's Business, &c.; as for link-boys, alias thieves with lights, there will be no need of them when the streets are illuminated, according to my project. That sailors as well as soldiers may not give cause of suspicion, it is fit they should also be quartered after the same nature; and more to enforce it, surveyors of quarters should have rounds allotted them. These surveyors should call at the quarters of every soldier or sailor at a limited hour, to see if they are there or no, and register them at home or absent accordingly; absence to be penal. Every soldier or sailor leaving his quarters till morning, after he has been found at home and registered, should be punished. I must be excused if I ward every obstacle, my design being to break up street-robbers, nest and egg. And that thieves may not stroll about, under pretence of being destitute of lodging, barracks or barns should be built at convenient ends of the town, where all vagrants should be obliged to render themselves at a stated hour, where they should have clean straw allowed them, and be kept orderly and out of harm's way; they may be let loose if they have apparent means of honest livelihood, otherwise they should be sent to the workhouse of their respective parish, or to a general workhouse, of which there is great need; and of which more hereafter. All publichouses and gin-shops, if they should be tolerated, should be shut up at ten. If the government should think fit to tolerate gin-shops, I see no reason why they may not be subject to licenses, and come into the pot-act as well as alehouses; especially considering there is as much gin as ale consumed nowadays. Night houses and cellars, above all, should be totally suppressed; these are the harbours and refuge of villains and strumpets; these are their houses of call where there hellish trade is carried on; it is here they wait for the signal of their scouts; here they cast their schemes, and bring in advices; here they encourage and initiate young thieves; here they barter and sell their stolen goods; these are their exchanges and asylums after mischief. Hackney coach drivers next require our care; they are the scum of the people, and, generally speaking, the worst of rogues. So many and such frequent robberies can never be committed without the connivance of these villains; and it is but too much to be feared, that at the same time they take up a fare they take up a robber, who is ready to mark his prey, and gets up either on the box or behind; and alights at a convenient place to perpetrate his hellish design. As for a 'snack of the coal' as they term it, no doubt but the coachman and he have proper understanding and rendezvous. Many who go to the coach-office nowadays, may be mistaken in their hopes of redress, not but the commissioners to a man treat complainants with the utmost civility; but the penalty, which used to be on the renter, being now on the driver, the renter or owner of that figure is clear, and the driver has nothing to do but to be absent and laugh at the complainant, an instance of which take in the following case:-- A hackney coachman took eighteenpence of a gentleman for a twelvepenny fare; the gentleman took his number and complained; the driver appeared, and was fined fifteen shillings, but the renter escaped; what was the result? The driver absconded, the gentleman sits down at his loss of attendance and money; had robbery or assault been the complaint, the consequence had been the same, the gentleman is but where he was. He has since called several times at the office, but to no purpose; all the answer he can get is, the fellow cannot be found. I write this therefore to undeceive those persons, who think when they have taken the number of a coach they can punish the driver for insolence or extortion. The law in this case ought to be turned into its old channel, that is to say, the owner of the figure should be answerable; he ought to employ a driver he can answer for, or drive himself. Every renter therefore should be obliged to register, and respond for his driver; or commissioners, figures, and all other forms, are to little purpose. Beggars should next be suppressed, who lounge about all day, to see where they can steal at night. It is a shame we should suffer real objects of charity to beg; and for those who are not so, it is a shame but they should work. I shall close all with these observations:-- That the extortions and cabals of tradesmen, by enhancing the prices of provisions, is most detrimental to a state, and worthy the notice of its legislature; for men not being able to support their families by honest labour, and being made beggars by reason of the dearness of provisions, ofttimes grow desperate and turn rogues. This assertion is but too true, to prove which I appeal to the late conduct of The coal merchants, The bakers, The butchers, And, above all, the tallow chandlers. The cabals of coal traders have for many years jockeyed us in the price of coals; they have raised and fell them at pleasure, and made mere stockjobbing work of it; but never so much as in his late majesty's reign; on a great impress for seamen, they, in less than a fortnight, raised the price of coals from twenty-three shillings to almost fifty. What a pinch must this be on the poor, who live only from hand to mouth, and buy their coals, poor souls! some by the half peck. The bakers are yet more flagrant and vile; they turn plenty to famine, and push up the price of bread without rule or reason; they have already been detected in one bite, i.e., procuring some of the fraternity to buy a small quantity of corn much above the market price, and then, by making oath thereof, abuse a well-intended law, and raise the price of bread accordingly. Thus are the poor ground to dust, in order to fatten a pack of misers, who know no mercy. But I hope the government will make them honest, even against their will. The butchers are now so extravagant in their way of living, that usual and moderate profit will not content them; they cannot drink malt liquor, and the poor must pay for the wine, which they swill down at an unmerciful rate. The price of meat should therefore be regulated according to the price of cattle, but not according to the baker's rule afore mentioned. But as for the tallow-chandlers, their oppressions call aloud for redress. To what an exorbitant pitch have they raised candles; just double what it was some years ago: nay, they threaten to have them at tenpence per pound. How can the poor work when candles are so dear? But we may thank our own luxury for these impositions. I see no reason why we should not humble these upstarts by making our own candles; aye, and our own bread too, as our forefathers have done before us. The tallow-chandlers, to excuse themselves, lay the fault on the melters. The melters shift it from themselves to the butchers; and so the game goes round. Oh but, say they, the government will lose part of its revenue: to which I answer, that rather than they shall raise candles to double their value, on pretence of paying a penny per pound excise; in case the parliament will take off the duty on candles for the ease of the poor, I will present them with a project gratis, which shall bring in almost double the money now levied by candles, and that without the least hardship on the subject. Having, I hope, taken sufficient care of street-robbers, I proceed now to clear the roads from highwaymen, footpads, &c. Let parties of horse be stationed at all the outgoings from the city of London; so that if a coach, wagon, &c., want a convoy, two, three, or more may be detached by the commanding officer; these shall be registered, and answerable for their charge; and for encouragement shall receive so much per mile, or in the whole, convoy money. This may be likewise practised from town to town all over England, so that the roads will be as safe as the streets; and they who scruple the trifle of convoy money above proposed, merit not safety. For those who walk on foot to the adjacent villages, parties of foot may be stationed in like manner; so that not only the subject will be free from danger, but the soldier employed and prevented from corrupt measures by this additional perquisite to his pay. Nothing remains but that robbers be prosecuted at the public charge; the trials fixed to respective days, that prosecutors may not lose so much time, and the rewards paid in court without deduction or delay; nor should any robber be admitted an evidence after he is taken, or pardoned after conviction. * * * * * [Transcriber's Note: The transcriber made this change to the text to correct an obvious error: 1. p. 12, a watchman to every forty houses, twenty on it one side of the way, and twenty on the other; for is observable that a man cannot well see distinctly beyond the extent of twenty houses in a row; --> a watchman to every forty houses, twenty on one side of the way, and twenty on the other; for it is observable that a man cannot well see distinctly beyond the extent of twenty houses in a row; End of Transcriber's Notes] 
19695	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Forty-one Thieves _A Tale of California_ ANGELO HALL Copyright, 1919 THE CORNHILL COMPANY BOSTON DEDICATED TO J. H. K. A PARTNER OF WILL CUMMINS AND A NEIGHBOR OF ROBERT PALMER CONTENTS I. Dead Men Tell No Tales II. The Graniteville Stage III. The Girl or the Gold? IV. A Council of War V. Old Man Palmer VI. Two of a Kind VII. An Old Sweetheart VIII. "Bed-bug" Brown, Detective IX. The Home-Coming of a Dead Man X. The Travels of John Keeler XI. The Snows of the Sierras XII. The Golden Summer Comes Again XIII. The End of the Trail XIV. Golden Opportunities XV. Three Graves by the Middle Yuba XVI. When Thieves Fall Out XVII. Brought to Justice XVIII. The End of J. C. P. Collins XIX. The Home-Coming of Another Dead Man XX. The Bridal Veil FORTY-ONE THIEVES CHAPTER I Dead Men Tell No Tales In the cemetery on the hill near the quiet village of Reedsville, Pennsylvania, you may find this inscription: WILLIAM F. CUMMINS son of Col. William & Martha Cummins who was killed by highwaymen near Nevada City, California September 1, 1879 aged 45 yrs. and 8 months Be ye therefore also ready For the Son of Man cometh At an hour when ye think not. It is a beautiful spot, on the road to Milroy. In former times a church stood in the middle of the grounds, and the stern old Presbyterian forefathers marched to meeting with muskets on their shoulders, for the country was infested with Indians. The swift stream at the foot of the hill, now supplying power for a grist-mill, was full of salmon that ran up through the Kishacoquillas from the blue Juniata. The savages begrudged the settlers these fish and the game that abounded in the rough mountains; but the settlers had come to cultivate the rich land extending for twelve miles between the mountain walls. The form of many a Californian now rests in that cemetery on the hill. A few years after the burial of the murdered Cummins, the body of Henry Francis was gathered to his fathers, and, near by, lie the bodies of four of his brothers,--all Californians. The staid Amish farmers and their subdued women, in outlandish, Puritanical garb, pass along the road unstirred by the romance and glamour buried in those graves. Dead men tell no tales! Else there were no need that pen of mine should snatch from oblivion this tale of California. More than thirty-five years have passed since my father, returning from the scene of Cummins' murder, related the circumstances. With Mat Bailey, the stage-driver, with whom Cummins had traveled that fatal day, he had ridden over the same road, had passed the large stump which had concealed the robbers, and had become almost an eye-witness of the whole affair. My father's rehearsal of it fired my youthful imagination. So it was like a return to the scenes of boyhood when, thirty-six years after the event, I, too, traveled the same road that Cummins had traveled and heard from the lips of Pete Sherwood, stage-driver of a later generation, the same thrilling story. The stump by the roadside had so far decayed as to have fallen over; but it needed little imagination to picture the whole tragedy. In Sacramento I looked up the files of the _Daily Record Union_, which on Sept. 3, 1879, two days after the event, gave a brief account of it. There was newspaper enterprise for you! An atrocious crime reported in a neighboring city two days afterward! Were such things too common to excite interest? Or was it felt that the recital of them did not tend to boom the great State of California? CHAPTER II The Graniteville Stage On that fateful first of September, 1879, the stage left Graniteville, as usual, at six o'clock in the morning. Graniteville, in Eureka Township, Nevada County, is the Eureka South of early days. The stage still makes the daily trip over the mountains; but the glamour and romance of the gold fields have long since departed. On the morning mentioned traffic was light, for people did not travel the twenty-eight miles through heat and dust to Nevada City for pleasure. Too often it was a case of running the gauntlet from the gold fields to the railroad terminus and safety. This very morning, Charley Chu, who had thrown up his job as mender of ditches, was making a dash for San Francisco, with five hundred dollars in dust and a pistol at his belt. The other passengers were Dr. John Mason and Mamie Slocum, teacher. Mamie, rosy-cheeked, dark-eyed, and pretty, was only seventeen, and ought to have been at home with her mother. She was a romantic girl, however, with several beaux in Eureka Township; and now that the summer session of school was over, she was going home to Nevada City, where there were other conquests to be made. Dr. Mason, a tall, lean Scotchman, lived at North Bloomfield, only nine miles distant, whence he had been summoned to attend a case of _delirium tremens_. The sparkling water of the Sierras is pure and cold, but the gold of the Sierras buys stronger drink. With a fee of two double eagles in his pocket, the doctor could look with charity upon the foibles of human nature. He thoroughly enjoyed the early morning ride among the giant pines. In the open places manzanita ran riot, its waxy green leaves contrasting with the dust-laden asters and coarse grasses by the roadside. Across the cañon of the Middle Yuba the yellow earth of old man Palmer's diggings shone like a trademark in the landscape, proclaiming to the least initiated the leading industry of Sierra and Nevada Counties, and marking for the geologist the height of the ancient river beds, twenty-five hundred feet above the Middle Yuba and nearly at right angles to it. Those ancient river beds were strewn with gold. Looking in the other direction, one caught glimpses here and there of the back-bone of the Sierras, jagged dolomites rising ten thousand feet skyward. The morning air was stimulating, for at night the thermometer drops to the forties even in midsummer. In a ditch by the roadside, and swift as a mill-race, flowed a stream of clear cold water, brought for miles from reservoirs up in the mountains. Even Charley Chu, now that he was leaving the gold fields forever, regarded the water-ditch with affection. It brought life--sparkling, abundant life--to these arid hill-tops. Years ago, Charley Chu and numerous other Chinamen had dug this very ditch. What would California have been without Chinese labor? Industrious Chinamen built the railroad over the Sierras to the East and civilization. Doctor, girl and Chinaman were too much occupied with their own thoughts to take much notice of the stage-driver, who, though he assumed an air of carelessness, was, in reality, on the watch for spies and robbers. For the bankers at Moore's Flat, a few miles further on, were planning to smuggle several thousand dollars' worth of gold dust to Nevada City that morning. Mat Bailey was a brave fellow, but he preferred the old days of armed guards and hard fighting to these dubious days when stage-drivers went unarmed to avoid the suspicion of carrying treasure. Charley Chu with his pistol had the right idea; and yet that very pistol might queer things to-day. Over this road for twenty-five years treasure to the amount of many millions of dollars had been carried out of the mountains; and Mat could have told you many thrilling tales of highwaymen. A short distance beyond Moore's Flat was Bloody Run, a rendezvous of Mexican bandits, back in the fifties. Not many years since, in the cañon of the South Yuba, Steve Venard, with his repeating rifle, had surprised and killed three men who had robbed the Wells Fargo Express. Some people hinted that when Steve hunted up the thieves and shot them in one, two, three order, he simply betrayed his own confederates. But the express company gave him a handsome rifle and a generous share of the gold recovered; I prefer to believe that Steve was an honest man. The stage arrived at Moore's Flat, and Mat Bailey hurriedly transferred baggage and passengers to the gaily painted and picturesque stage-coach which, drawn by four strong horses, was to continue the journey. A pair of horses and a mountain wagon had handled the traffic to that point; but at the present time, when Moore's Flat can boast but eleven inhabitants, the transfer to the stage-coach is made at North Bloomfield, several miles further on. But in 1879, Moore's Flat, Eureka Township, was a thriving place, employing hundreds of miners. The great sluices, blasted deep into solid rock, then ran with the wash from high walls of dirt and gravel played upon by streams of water in the process known as hydraulic mining. Jack Vizzard, the watchman, threaded those sluiceways armed with a shot-gun. At Moore's Flat, six men and two women boarded the stage; and Mat Bailey took in charge a small leather valise, smuggled out of the back door of the bank and handed to him carelessly. Mat received it without the flicker of an eyelash. Nevertheless, he scrutinized the eight new passengers, with apparent indifference but with unerring judgment. All except two, a man and a woman, were personally known to him. And these excited less suspicion than two well-known gamblers, who greeted Mat cordially. "It hurts business, Mat, to ship so much dust out of the country," said one. "Damn shame," said the other. Mat paid no attention to these remarks, pretending to be busy with the baggage. Quite accidentally he lifted an old valise belonging to Will Cummins, who, dressed in a long linen duster, had just boarded the stage. Cummins exchanged glances with the driver, and luckily, as Mat thought, the gamblers seemed to take no notice. Will Cummins had been in the gold regions twenty-five years. He had already made and lost one small fortune, and now at the age of forty-five, with all his available worldly goods, some seven thousand dollars in bullion, he was homeward bound to Reedsville, Pennsylvania. In the full vigor of manhood, he was a Californian of the highest type. He had always stood for law and order, and was much beloved by decent people. By the other sort it was well understood that Will Cummins was a good shot, and would fight to a finish. He was a man of medium height, possessed of clear gray eyes and an open countenance. The outlines of a six-shooter were clearly discernible under his duster. In a cloud of dust, to the clink of horse-shoes, the stage rolled out of Moore's Flat, and was soon in the dark woods of Bloody Run. "Good morning, Mr. Cummins." It was the school-teacher who spoke; and Cummins, susceptible to feminine charms, bowed graciously. "Do you know, Mr. Cummins, it always gives me the shivers to pass through these woods. So many dreadful things have happened here." "Why, yes," answered Cummins, good-naturedly. "It was along here somewhere, I think, that the darkey, George Washington, was captured." "Tell me about it," said Mamie. "Oh, George was violently opposed to Chinese cheap labor; so he made it his business to rob Chinamen. But the Chinamen caught him, tied his hands and feet, slung him on a pole like so much pork and started him for Moore's Flat, taking pains to bump him against every stump and boulder _en route_." Charley Chu was grinning in pleasant reverie. Mamie laughed. "But the funny thing in this little episode," continued Cummins, "was the defense set up by George Washington's lawyer. There was no doubt that George was guilty of highway robbery. He had been caught red-handed, and ten Chinamen were prepared to testify to the fact. But counsel argued that by the laws of the State a white man could not be convicted on the testimony of Chinamen; and that, within the meaning of the statute, in view of recent amendments to the Constitution of the United States, George was a white man. The judge ruled that the point was well taken; and, inasmuch as the prisoner had been thoroughly bumped, he dismissed the case." The story is well known in Nevada County; but Mamie laughed gleefully, and turned her saucy eyes upon Charley: "Did you help to bump George Washington?" The Celestial was an honest man, and shook his head: "Me only look on. That cullud niggah he lob me." Will Cummins glanced at the Chinaman's pistol and smiled. By this time the stage had crossed Bloody Run and was ascending the high narrow ridge known as the Back-Bone, beyond which lay the village of North Bloomfield. By the roadside loomed a tall lone rock, placed as if by a perverse Providence especially to shelter highwaymen. For a moment Cummins looked grave, and he reached for his six-shooter. Mat Bailey cracked his whip and dashed by as if under fire. From the Back-Bone the descent to North Bloomfield was very steep, and was made with grinding of brakes and precipitate speed. Arrived at the post-office, Dr. Mason and the two gamblers left the coach; and a store-keeper and two surveyors employed by the great Malakoff Mining Company took passage to Nevada City. In those halcyon days of hydraulic mining, the Malakoff, employing fifty men, was known to clean up $100,000 in thirty days. It was five hundred feet through dirt and gravel to bed-rock, and a veritable cañon had been washed out of the earth. The next stop was Lake City,--a name illustrative of Californian megalomania; for the lake, long since gone dry, was merely an artificial reservoir to supply a neighboring mine, and the city was a collection of half a dozen buildings including a store and a hotel. Through the open door of the store a huge safe was visible, for here was one of those depositories for gold dust locally known as a bank. As the stage pulled up, the banker and a lady stepped out to greet Will Cummins, who alighted and cordially shook hands. Miss Slocum, apparently, was somewhat piqued because she was not introduced. "I was hoping you would accompany us to Nevada City," Cummins said, addressing the lady, who regarded him with affection, as Mamie thought. "You must remember, Will," said the banker, "that Mary hasn't been up to Moore's Flat yet to see her old flames." "Too late!" said Cummins. "The Keystone Club gave a dinner last night, to wish me a pleasant journey. Eighteen of the twenty-one were present. But by this time they have scattered to the four winds." "Never fear," cried the lady; "I shall find some of our boys at Moore's Flat. You are the only one travelling in this direction; and the four winds combined could not blow them over the cañon of the Middle Yuba." "I remember you think that cañon deep and terrible, Mary," Will replied; "but it is not wide, you know. Remember our walk to Chipp's Flat, the last time you were here? Nothing left there but the old cannon. As the boys say, everything else has been fired." "All aboard!" shouted Mat, who felt that he was wasting time in Lake City. And so Mary Francis, sister of Henry Francis, bade adieu to Will Cummins, little knowing that they would never meet again, either in California or "back home" in Pennsylvania. The stage rolled on, past a grove of live oaks hung with mistletoe. Cummins had passed this way many times before. He had even gathered mistletoe here to send to friends in the East. But to-day for the first time it made his heart yearn for the love he had missed. Mary Francis was thirty-five now. Twenty-five years ago he was twenty and she was a little bashful girl. Her father's house had been the rendezvous of Californians on their occasional visits in the East. His mind traveled back over old scenes; but soon the cañon of the South Yuba burst upon his vision, thrilling him with its grandeur and challenging his fighting instincts. For after winding down three miles to the river, the road climbed three miles up the opposite side--three toiling miles through the ambushes of highwaymen. There was the scene of many a hold-up. And to-day, at his age, he simply must not be robbed. It would break his heart. In sheer desperation he drew his six-shooter, examined it carefully, glanced at his fellow-passengers and sat silent, alert and grim. Except for the Chinaman, the passengers were feeble folk. At sight of the revolver the men began to fidget; and, except for Mamie Slocum, the romantic, the women turned pale. Down the coach plunged into the deep cañon! Little likelihood of a hold-up when travelling at such a pace. Down, down, safely down to the river, running clear and cold among the rocks. And then the slow ascent. Mat Bailey, perched on his high seat as lordly as Ph[oe]bus Apollo, felt cold shivers run down his spine. From every bush, stump and rock he expected a masked man to step forth. Could he depend upon Cummins and the Chinaman? How slowly the horses labored up that fatal hill, haunted by the ghosts of murdered travelers! Why should he, Mat Bailey, get mixed up in other men's affairs? What was there in it for him? Of course, he would try to play a man's part; but he sincerely wished he were at the top of the hill. At last they were safely out of the cañon, and the horses were allowed to rest a few minutes. Cummins replaced his pistol and buttoned up his duster; and the passengers fell to talking. The store-keeper from North Bloomfield began to tell a humorous story of a lone highwayman who, with a double-barrelled shot gun waylaid the Wells Fargo Express near Downieville. As he waited, with gun pointed down the road, he heard a wagon approach behind him. Coolly facing about, he levelled his gun at the approaching travellers, three workmen, and remarked, "Gentlemen, you have surprised me. Please deliver your guns, and stand upon that log," indicating a prostrate pine four feet in diameter. Needless to say, the men mounted the log and held up their hands. Then a load of hay approached, and the driver mounted the log with the others. Then came another wagon, with two men and a ten-year old boy, George Williams. The robber ordered these to stand upon the log, whereupon little George, in great trepidation, exclaimed, "Good Mr. Robber, don't shoot, and I will do anything you tell me!" About this time one barrel of the robber's gun was accidentally discharged into the log, and he remarked: "That was damned careless," and immediately reloaded with buckshot. At length the stage came along; and promptly holding it up, he tossed the driver a sack, directing him to put his gold dust therein. This done, he sent each separate vehicle upon its way as cool as a marshal on dress parade. With Nevada City only four miles away, the cañon of the South Yuba safely passed, and the stage bowling along over an easy road, it seemed a good story. "Halt!" Two masked men emerged from behind a stump by the roadside, and Charley Chu drew his revolver. The passengers in a panic took it away from him. Mat Bailey pulled up his horses. While one robber covered Mat, the other covered the passengers, who at his command lined themselves up by the roadside with hands raised. Cummins got out on the side of the stage opposite the robber; and but for the duster, buttoned from chin to ankles, he would have had the dead wood on that robber. It was not to be; and Cummins, hands in air, joined his helpless companions. The robber then proceeded to rifle the baggage. Charley Chu lost his five hundred dollars. Mat Bailey gave up the leather bag from Moore's Flat. "Whose is this?" demanded the robber, laying his hand on Cummins' old valise. As if hypnotized, Mamie Slocum answered, "That is Mr. Cummins'." The robber seized it. Cummins exclaimed: "It is all I have in the world, and I will defend it with my life." With that he seized the robber, overpowered him, and went down with him into the dust. If only there had been one brave man among those cowards! "Is there no one to help me?" shouted Cummins; but no one stirred. In the gold regions of California each man is for himself. To prevent trouble his fellow-passengers had disarmed the Chinaman. The other robber, seeing his partner overpowered, passed quickly along in front of the line of passengers, placed his gun at Cummins' head, and fired. The struggle had not lasted fifteen seconds when Will Cummins lay murdered by the roadside. CHAPTER III The Girl or the Gold Cummins was killed about one o'clock. Two hours later two prospectors, in conventional blue shirts and trousers, each with a pack over his back, were seen in the neighborhood of Scott's Flat. They excited no suspicion, as no one at Scott's Flat had heard anything about the hold-up; and even if news had come, there was nothing suspicious in the appearance of these men. They had looked out for that. As a matter of precaution they had provided themselves a change of clothing and their prospectors' outfit. By common consent they had very little to say to each other; for they knew that a careless word might betray them. They were in a desperate hurry to reach Gold Run or Dutch Flat to catch the evening train East; but from their motions you would not have suspected this. They followed the trails across country at the usual swinging gait of honest men, and they knew they had six hours to make fifteen miles over the hills. They passed near Quaker Hill, Red Dog, and You Bet, keeping away from people as much as they dared to, but not obviously avoiding anyone. At You Bet, Gold Run and Dutch Flat they had taken the precaution to show themselves for several days past; so that no one should notice their reappearance. They were not unknown in this region, and there were men at You Bet who could have identified them as Nevada City jail-birds. There was O'Leary, for example, who had been in jail with them. But in a country filled with gamblers and sporting men, where the chief end of man is to get gold and to enjoy it forever, it is not deemed polite to enquire too closely into people's antecedents. These men, evidently native-born Americans, bore the good Anglo-Saxon names of Collins and Darcy. What more could you ask? They perspired freely, and their packs were evidently heavy; but men who collect specimens of quartz are likely to carry heavy packs, and the day was hot. At You Bet the men separated, Darcy striking out for Gold Run with all the gold, and Collins making for Dutch Flat, which is farther up the railroad. This was to throw the railroad men off the scent, for news of the murder had probably been telegraphed to all railroad stations in the vicinity. Incidentally, and unknown to his partner, this arrangement necessitated a momentous decision in the mind of Collins. As he formulated the question, it was, "The girl or the gold?" Like many young criminals, Collins was very much of a ladies' man. He associated with girls of the dance-hall class, but he aspired to shine in the eyes of those foolish women who admire a gay, bad man. He would have preferred to have his share of the plunder then and there in order to stay in California to win the hand of Mamie Slocum. But Darcy was determined to get out of the country as quickly as possible, and when they separated insisted upon taking all the gold. It would not do to quarrel with him, for both would be lost if either was suspected. To share in the plunder he would have to go East with Darcy, who was to board the same train at Gold Run that Collins would take at Dutch Flat. The girl or the gold? Because of his infatuation for the girl he had become a highwayman. He had not expected her to come down from Graniteville that day. He had not counted on being nearly killed by Cummins, for it was he whom Cummins had overpowered. He had not supposed that anyone would be killed. Things had turned out in a strange and terrible way. To gain a few thousand dollars by highway robbery was no worse than to win it by a dozen other methods counted respectable. Among the youth of Nevada City with whom he had associated, it was commonly believed that every successful man in town had done something crooked at some time in his career--that life was nothing but a gamble anyhow, and that a little cheating might sometimes help a fellow. When he had learned, some months before, how greatly Mamie admired Will Cummins, he had thought it good policy to pretend a like admiration. While the girl was in Graniteville, away from her parents, he had seen her as often as he could, and had, he was sure, acted the part of a chivalrous gentleman. He had referred to his jail record in such a magnanimous way as to win her admiration and sympathy. And he had been magnanimous toward Cummins. He had stoutly maintained that even gentlemen of the road are men of honor, incapable of petty meanness, merely taking by force from some money-shark what was rightfully theirs by virtue of their being gentlemen. Therefore, he argued, no self-respecting highwayman would rob a man like Will Cummins--the merest hint that property belonged to him would be sufficient to protect it. He had waxed eloquent over the matter. He was now appalled to think how his argument, though insincere, had been refuted. That Mamie had spoken those fatal words was not a ruse of his but an inexplicable accident. How could he ever see the girl again? And yet, in this one respect he was innocent, and he wished she might know it. Besides, he was man enough to sympathize with her in her awful predicament. With what horror she must be thinking of her part in the tragedy! There was considerable generosity in his nature, and he actually debated, criminal though he was, whether he might not better let Darcy keep the loot and stand by Mamie. The girl or the gold? Is it surprising that the decision of J. C. P. Collins was similar to that of other Californians? Similar to Cummins', for example? He decided to make sure of the gold first and to think about the girl later. With six or eight thousand dollars in the bank he would be a more valuable friend than a poor man could be. After this affair had blown over, and he recalled the fact that Doc Mason had performed eleven autopsies on murdered men in the last ten years, and not one murderer had been hanged so far,--he would rescue Mamie from the demoralization of the gold fields and take her to live in St. Louis or New Orleans. And now he saw with some satisfaction that her apparent complicity in the crime would make life hard for her in Nevada City and impel her to accept such a proposal. It might have been just as well if the rattlesnake coiled in his path at that moment had ended his existence, but the snake was indeed an honorable highwayman, and sounded a gentlemanly warning in the nick of time. Collins would have killed it for its pains, but killing had upset his nerves that day. So he left the reptile to try its fangs on a better man. Besides, he reflected that he could not consistently advocate capital punishment, and he sincerely hoped that his humane sentiments would spread in California. He recalled the fact that there was a strong party among the good people of the State, represented by several ladies who had brought him bouquets and jellies when he was in jail, who were trying to abolish capital punishment. Judging from Doc Mason's experience in murder cases, the efforts of these good people were not called for. And yet the law as it stood had unpleasant possibilities for Collins. He was really sorry about Cummins. Of course, Cummins was a fool. A man of such character would not miss a few thousand dollars in the long run. What a fool he had been to risk his life! Of course, he, Collins, had risked his life, too. But how different were the two cases! Cummins had rich friends who would help him; Collins had no friends, barring a few silly women. His long suit was women. He really regretted Cummins' death more on Mamie's account than for any other reason. Poor Mamie! But it must be the gold and not the girl this trip. When he had invested his capital and made his pile, he would play the prince to his Cinderella. They would both be glad to flee this country. Bah! the very soil was red! Golden blossoms sprung from it, but the roots were fed with blood. Collins was a young fellow, by no means a hardened criminal, and the excitement of the day stimulated intellect and emotion like the drug of a Chinaman. He reached Dutch Flat in due season, and found several old cronies at the railroad station, where people were discussing the death of Cummins. He succeeded in showing the due amount of interest and no more, and was diplomatic enough not to suggest that the murderers were now on their way to San Francisco. He took the train going East according to schedule, and found Darcy playing poker in the smoking car. Collins betook himself to his pipe at the other end of the car, glad that night had come, and that he would soon bid farewell to the Sierras. He felt the train swing round the horse-shoe curve through Blue Cañon, and shortly afterward he noticed that they had entered the snow sheds, which for forty-five miles tunnel the snow drifts of winter, and which in summer lie like a huge serpent across the summit of the mountains. Once out of the sheds they would speed down the valley from Truckee into Nevada. The fugitives were well over the line before they took any notice of each other. Except for themselves the smoker was now empty, and they had prepared to spend the night there like honest miners who were down on their luck. Collins remarked in an undertone: "Darcy, we have given them the royal sneak." "Know what I've been thinking?" replied Darcy. "I've been thinking of that wise remark of Ben Franklin's when he signed the Declaration of Independence." "What was that?" "We've got to hang together or we'll hang separately." "That's no joke." "You bet your soul it's no joke. And you'd better shut up and go to sleep." Silence for ten minutes. Then Collins said, "You're a tough nut to talk about sleep when you've killed the best man in Nevada County." "Where would you be, J. C. P. Collins, if I hadn't killed him? You'd be in hell this minute." "Thanks, awfully. But I wish the man wasn't dead." "What did the fool put up a fight for? He could see we had him." "That's what I say. He was a fool to risk his life. He could see there was no help coming from those sports." "Well, Collins, there was one of them that made me feel nervous--that Chinaman. But the rest of them had him corralled. Mat Bailey couldn't do nothing up there in the air. Cummins was a fool, that's all." "Must have wanted his gold pretty bad. And I wish to God he had it right now." "Here, take a nip of brandy. Your health's getting delicate." "Well, partner, no harm meant. But I must say I sympathize with Cummins. He and I have made the same choice to-day." "How's that?" "The girl or the gold--and we both chose the gold. And I'll be hanged if I don't think we were both right." CHAPTER IV A Council of War Six days had elapsed. It was evening, and in the large room over Haggerty's store at Moore's Flat the lamps had been lighted. Here ten members of the Keystone Club had gathered to see if something might not be done to avenge the death of Cummins. Henry Francis presided; but the meeting was informal. These men had not met to pass resolutions, but to decide upon some line of action. So far not a trace of the murderers had been found, except for their discarded clothing. Sheriff Carter's blood-hounds had followed a hot scent to Deer Creek, several miles above Nevada City, and the posse who followed the dogs were led to a pool, in the bottom of which, weighted with stones, was the clothing. Further than this the dogs could not go. They were soon sneezing as the result of inhaling red pepper, scattered on the rocks. And the robbers had probably waded up or down stream to insure complete safety. Several suspicious characters had passed over the railroad to Sacramento and San Francisco; but this was an every-day occurrence, and the police had learned the futility of arresting men who were probably innocent miners pursuing the gay life. Nothing thus far had been accomplished. Hence the meeting over Haggerty's store. Dr. Mason and Mat Bailey were present. The doctor came because of a sense of civic duty. His British sense of justice had been outraged beyond endurance. "You know, Mr. Francis," he said, "I have performed autopsies upon eleven murdered men within the last ten years; and in no case has one of the murderers been brought to justice. It is outrageous, scandalous. Decent men cannot afford to live in a community where people are more interested in making money than in enforcing the law. Decent men become marked men--marked for slaughter as Cummins was. We must do something, if only to protect ourselves." "You are quite right, Doctor," replied Francis, "and we propose to investigate for ourselves. Did you notice any suspicious circumstance when you rode down from Eureka South the other day?" The doctor could not think of anything important unless it was the remarks of the gamblers at Moore's Flat about shipping gold dust out of the country. But if they were accomplices they would hardly have spoken so carelessly. And why did they leave the stage at North Bloomfield? They were still there; but no one had observed anything remarkable in their behavior. That Cummins was leaving California, probably with gold, was a well-known fact. That he would go armed, considering the character of the man, was almost certain. And this was a good reason why bankers at Moore's Flat or Lake City might ship bullion that fatal day. Mat Bailey nodded solemn assent, for he knew that this was sound logic. It was now his turn to offer suggestions. A stage-driver is always a person of importance, especially in California. For the past six days Mat had found his public importance rather embarrassing. Every trip past the robbers' hiding-place had brought an avalanche of questions from curious passengers. Probably Mat Bailey had been forced to think of the tragedy more constantly than had any other person. His opinion ought to be valuable. He hesitated, and seemed loath to speak his mind. "Out with it, Mat," said Francis. "This hearing is among friends, not official. Tell us just what you think." "Well," replied Mat, "there is one circumstance you gentlemen ought to know. Up to this time nobody has mentioned it; and I hate to be the first to speak of it." Everybody's interest was aroused. After a pause Mat continued: "When the robber was going over the baggage he came to Mr. Cummins' valise, and asked, 'Whose is this?' One of the passengers spoke up and said, 'That belongs to Mr. Cummins.' Then the row began." "Who is the guilty man?" cried Francis. Mat looked embarrassed: "It wasn't a man. It was Miss Slocum." There was a moment of silence. Everybody was shocked, and trying to work out in his own mind some logical connection between the school-teacher and the crime. "That's where you've got us guessing, Mat," said one. "What can a crowd of bachelors do if you drag a woman into the case?" "And yet," said another, "what else ought we to expect? A woman's at the bottom of everything, you know." "Yes, we would none of us be here in this wicked world except for our mothers," remarked the doctor sarcastically. "How has Miss Slocum been acting since the tragedy, Mat? I must confess I can't think ill of that girl." "Well, Doctor," replied Mat, "she has acted just as you would expect an innocent girl to act. She's been all broken up--down sick a good part of the time. And I don't believe there's a man, woman, or child in Nevada City who mourns Will Cummins more than she does. That's why I hate to mention her name. And that's why I haven't said anything up to this time. But some of those cowards who looked on while Cummins was murdered have begun to talk; so you would have heard the story sooner or later anyhow. Still, I hate to mention the girl's name." "You have done right," said Francis. "The girl might have helped the robbers without intending to. Frightened out of her wits, perhaps. Somebody might question her kindly, and see what's back of this. And, gentlemen, as Bailey spends a good deal of his time at Nevada City, it seems to me he is the man to follow up this clue. Call on the girl, Mat, and see what you can find out." So out of a sordid tragedy there was spun a thread of romance. The school-teacher and the stage-driver are about the only characters who do not require the "gold cure." Mat had ridden over the mountains at all seasons until he loved them. His chief delights were the companionship of his stout horses and his even more intimate companionship with nature. To scare up a partridge, to scent the pines, to listen to the hermit thrush were meat and drink to him. That there was gold in these noble mountains moved him very little, though this fact provided him with a livelihood for which he was duly grateful. The school-teacher was fortunate to be brought up with a sharp turn so early in life, and to find so true a friend as Mat Bailey. But this was only the beginning of the council at Moore's Flat. It was suggested that John Keeler, Cummins' old partner, be employed to scour the country in search of the assassins. There was no more trustworthy man in Eureka Township than Keeler. His affection for Cummins was well known. But his peculiarities might unfit him for the proposed mission. His Southern sense of chivalry unfitted him for detective work that might involve deceit and downright lying. He cared more for his honor than he did for money, and had been known to refuse very tempting offers. Finally, he was opposed to violence. He had refused to act as a watchman for a ditch company on the ground that he might be expected to shoot some one. It was a question whether Keeler could be induced to bring a man to the gallows. Presently, Dr. Mason spoke up: "You couldn't employ a better man than Keeler. He is the soul of honor, as you all admit. For several years he was Cummins' partner. As sheriff of Nevada County he would free it of thugs and murderers as he frees every claim that he works of rattlesnakes. He is death on rattlers. Killed more than a hundred of them last summer. But the lawless element of this county take mighty good care that Keeler is not elected sheriff. So much the better for us, for he is free to manage this business." The doctor's speech made an impression. But these Californians had not yet learned the value of honor. They seemed to think that they could catch the murderers if they put up enough money. They themselves were too busy making money to hunt down the outlaws; but they assumed that money would do it; and they were willing to put up thousands of dollars. But numerous rewards for the apprehension of desperadoes were outstanding at that very hour; and the desperadoes were still at large. As a money-making proposition, mining with all its uncertainties was more attractive than professional detective work. Then again, these Californians could not trust a man actuated by motives higher than their own. Indeed, their chairman, Henry Francis himself, for some subtle reason which it would have been well for him to analyze, was opposed to employing honest John Keeler. It would have been well for Francis, before it was too late, to realize to what an extent money standards were replacing honor in his own life. It takes determination, loyalty, devotion, to accomplish a difficult task; and such qualities cannot be bought. When Captain Jack and his Modocks held a council of war in their lava beds, they accomplished things which it was beyond the power of these fortune-hunters to accomplish. Captain Jack had no gold, but the skill, loyalty, and devotion of every Indian of his band were at his command. And yet Francis would have imagined himself the superior of Captain Jack. As time was passing, with little accomplished, Francis suggested that they might first decide upon the amount to be offered as a reward for the apprehension of the murderers. It was voted to offer a reward of $10,000, or $5,000 for either of the two men. "Now, gentlemen," said Francis, "I shall have to go over to Fillmore Hill to-morrow to see Mr. Palmer, who holds a note against Will Cummins. You know I am settling the estate. Keeler will be over there, they say, and I will talk with him. But on the way over, I shall look up a man worth two of John Keeler in a business like this." "Who is that?" asked the doctor. "Mr. William Brown." No one seemed to know William Brown. "He lives a mile up the cañon," continued Francis. "Oh, you mean Bed-bug Brown," said Mat Bailey. "Yes," replied Francis, "that's the name he commonly goes by." "I know the man," said the doctor. "Says he came here in '54 and that he has had a picnic ever since. Though he couldn't have had much of a picnic that first winter, when he camped out by the big log; and only a few winters ago Palmer had to send him a quarter of beef." "Well, Brown is a born detective," said Francis. "He worked up the Caffey case like a professional." Ben Caffey's brother had been hanged in Wisconsin, in the region of the lead mines, ten years before. He was innocent of the crime charged, and Ben had vowed vengeance on the jury. All twelve of the jurors, though scattered over the country from New Orleans to the cañon of the Middle Yuba, had met violent deaths. The last man had been a neighbor of Brown's. Just before his death a stranger with a limp left arm had appeared at Moore's Flat; and Brown had proved to his own satisfaction that the same man with a limp arm had appeared at New Orleans just before the death of the eleventh juror in that city. The man with the limp arm was Ben Caffey. Such was Brown's story. People had not paid much attention to it, nor to the murdered man's lonely grave by the river. Henry Francis, evidently, gave Brown full credence, but others present regarded "Bed-bug Brown" as a joke. True, he was an intelligent little man. He had taught school at Graniteville several winters, and had succeeded better at this business than at placer mining on the bars of the Middle Yuba. But "Bed-bug Brown," perennial picnicker, was not a scientific sleuth. So when the council of war broke up, a feeling of skepticism prevailed. Mat Bailey saw more possibilities in his own suggestion than in the $10,000 reward. Dr. Mason saw more possibilities, however slight, in the reward than in the proposed detective. And Henry Francis, though he had known Cummins from boyhood, and was even now settling up his estate, pretended to see more possibilities in a stranger than in honest John Keeler--or himself. CHAPTER V Old Man Palmer Robert Palmer, tall, thin, bent with toil, had lived in California thirty years. In May, 1849, when the snow drifts were still deep in the cañons of the Sierras, he had crossed the mountains, past Donner Lake and the graves of the Donner party, through Emigrant's Gap, to the valley of the Sacramento. He was thirty-two years old at that time,--no mere youth, seeking treasure at the end of a rainbow. He was already a man of experience and settled habits, inured to hardship and adverse fortune. As a youth he had left his native hills of Connecticut, to sell clocks, first in the South and then in the lumber camps of Michigan. There, the business of Yankee pedlar having failed, he found himself stranded. His father was a prosperous farmer; but a stepmother ruled the household. So young Palmer hired out to a Michigan farmer, for he was one of those hardy New Englanders who ask no favors of fortune. Imagining a pretty frontier girl to be a sylvan goddess, with a Puritan's devotion he made love to her, only to be scorned for his modesty. But failure and disappointment served but to strengthen him, and he struck out for California. He nearly perished on the way there, while crossing the deserts of Nevada. In Wyoming he had fallen into the hands of that brave true man, John Enos, then in his prime, who had guided Bonneville, Fremont and the Mormon pilgrims, and who,--living to the age of a hundred and four years,--saw the wilderness he had loved and explored for eighty years transformed to a proud empire. Enos had guided Fremont through Wyoming. It is rather too bad that Palmer could not have accompanied Fremont and Kit Carson when, in February, 1844, they crossed the snowy summit of the Sierras and descended through the deep drifts to Sutter's Fort and safety. That was four years before the discovery of gold in El Dorado County. Palmer was not crazy for gold. Arrived in the Sacramento Valley, he spent three or four years at farming. Perhaps his Yankee shrewdness saw larger profits in hay and cattle than in washing gravel. But certainly his New England integrity and soberness of character were more in keeping with the spirit of the pioneer than with the spirit of the adventurer. While reckless young men were swarming up the valleys of South, Middle and North Yuba, finding fabulous quantities of gold and squandering the same upon the Chinese harlots of Downieville, Robert Palmer was making hay while the sun shone, which was every day in the Sacramento Valley. But land titles were so uncertain that in 1853 he turned to mining,--at Jefferson, on the South Yuba. He prospered to such an extent that by 1859 he had sent $8,000 back to Connecticut to pay his debts; and he had laid by as much more. Frozen out of his claim by a water company--for without water a miner can do nothing--he sold out to the company in 1860, and went over to the Middle Yuba, where he bought a claim on Fillmore Hill, with a water ditch of its own. Here Palmer lived and toiled for twenty years, washing the dirt and gravel of an ancient river-bed high up on the hill-top between Wolf Creek and the Middle Yuba. He rented water from his ditch, sometimes at the rate of two hundred and fifty dollars a month, to other miners. From the grass roots on the hillside some lucky fellows cleaned up $10,000 in a few days. For several years John Keeler and Will Cummins rented water from Palmer and helped the "old man" keep his ditch in repair. The old man lived alone, industrious, and so economical as to excite the mirth or the pity of his rough neighbors. Some who heard that he had loaned $60,000 to a water company at 12 per cent. interest, regarded him contemptuously as a miser. How else explain his shabby clothes, his old rubber boots, that were out at the toes, his life of toil and self-denial? Palmer never gambled, nor caroused, nor spent money on women. He attended strictly to business, bringing to the bank at Moore's Flat from time to time gold dust of high grade, worth from $19 to $20 an ounce. And those who bought his gold marked how rough and torn were the old man's fingers, the nails broken and blackened and forced away from the flesh. But Keeler and Cummins had seen through the rough exterior. They knew something of his charities. They had tasted his good cheer; for he kept a well-stocked larder. They had seen with amusement his family of pet cats seated at table with him, and each receiving its rations in due order, like so many children. Keeler told with glee about the old man's horse and mule, idly eating their heads off on the hillside. They had come to Palmer in payment of a debt, and although he had had a fair offer for the mule he had refused to sell, on the ground that without the mule the horse would be lonesome. Robert Palmer knew what it was to be lonesome. True, he employed a hired man or two occasionally, and when he cleaned up his sluices he employed several--and, let it be said, he paid good wages. There were neighbors, but with most of them he had little in common. The Woolsey boys, at the ranch in the bottom of the cañon, whose widowed mother had come from St. Louis to marry old Sherwood, had grown up under his kindly eye. In early boyhood their active limbs had scaled the forbidding ledges of Fillmore Hill, and Robert Palmer had granted them permission to hunt on his claim. One night in his cabin on the mountain top, when the gold dust from the last clean-up had not yet been disposed of, he was startled by a noise outside. He blew out the light and hid his little bag of treasure in the ashes of his forge. None too soon, for there was a summons at the door, and when he opened it he was confronted by three masked men. With drawn pistols they demanded his money. He said he had none. It was useless to resist, so he let them bind him hand and foot. Again they demanded his money. Again he said he had none. They knew better, and they threatened to burn him alive in his cabin. But Palmer was firm. Then they burnt his legs with a hot poker, and threatened to shoot him, as they might have done with impunity in that lonesome place. Still he was firm, so they set him on the hot stove and tortured him in that way. One of the party, more humane than the rest, protested against more extreme measures; so that, after searching the cabin, they gave up their enterprise, baffled by that indomitable man. Before leaving him one of the men asked: "Mr. Palmer, do you know us?" Realizing that such knowledge meant death, he replied: "No, I don't know any of you." And so they left him. The lone miner no doubt had suspicions concerning several of his worthless neighbors; but to the day of his death he kept such suspicions to himself. Is it any wonder, living in that lawless country, that Robert Palmer became almost a recluse? But why should he work so? He was working unselfishly for others, as you will see when you read his will, for his twenty-nine nephews and nieces. As if a heap of double eagles would be of any particular use to relatives who had well-nigh forgotten him! No, they had not forgotten. For one nephew borrowed money, which was, however, repaid, and one niece secured five hundred dollars by sharp practice worse than robbery. Robert Palmer made the mistake that many an unselfish man has made, the mistake that insurance companies insist is wisdom: he labored to provide others with gold, as though gold were a substitute for thrift, prudence, and self-reliance. Never mind, the old fellow did nephews and nieces no harm, though he disappointed several who had depended upon him to lift them from poverty; for in the end his hard-earned money was lost. His only legacy was his example of thrift, unselfishness, and integrity. When men go about gathering riches for others, let them gather things of the spirit. The answer to this, perhaps, is that even such riches cannot be transmitted, that every soul must enrich itself. That is true; but a noble character is at least inspiring, and leaves the whole world richer. In the case of one nephew, Robert Palmer found a man who loved him but needed none of his gold. This man was an astronomer, who, returning from a scientific expedition to Behring Strait in 1869, paid his uncle a visit. At that time this meant a trip of forty miles into the mountains by stage and on horseback from the line of the newly constructed railroad; for the narrow gauge from Colfax to Nevada City was not built until 1876. It was a happy day for Robert Palmer when his sister's son,--covered with dust,--scaled Fillmore Hill. Here was a meeting of two strong men, blue-eyed Anglo-Saxons, large of frame, spare, rugged, their fair skin tanned by the blazing sun of California. What a glorious visit they had! And how they revelled in a thousand recollections of their New England home! For nine days the astronomer shared his uncle's cabin, a new one, built of sawn timbers and boards, and quite comfortable. Several days they worked together in the mine; and when at last the hour of parting came, Robert Palmer sent by his nephew a present to his grandnephews in Washington, the astronomer's three small sons. It was the gold mined in those nine days, some one hundred and thirty dollars in value. Thereafter the boys played miners and stage-robbers and wild West generally, with sheet gold in the guise of yellow envelopes hidden away between the leaves of books to represent gold mines. CHAPTER VI Two of a Kind The day after the council of war at Moore's Flat, John Keeler crossed the cañon of the Middle Yuba to talk over the death of his old partner with Robert Palmer. As he clambered up the steep side of Fillmore Hill to the claim he had worked with Cummins fifteen years before, all the poetry and all the sadness of life in California came over him. How vividly he remembered his arrival, at the age of eighteen, in this land of romance and adventure! He had reached Moore's Flat on the Fourth of July, 1860, when bronzed miners were celebrating in reckless fashion. The saloons were crowded, and card games were in progress, with gold coins stacked at the corners of the tables. Out of doors some red-faced fellows were running races in the streets and shouting like wild Indians. Over the door of a restaurant was the sign "Eat, Drink, and Be Merry," and the youth pondered the words of Scripture following these festive words, but not quoted by the enterprising proprietor. He remembered now, after nineteen years, the strange aspect of nature in this strange land. What great mountains! What deep cañons! What huge pines, with cones as large as a rolling-pin! The strange manzanita bushes, the chaparral, the buck-eye with its plumes, the fragrant mountain lily, like an Easter lily, growing wild. It had seemed good to him, a stranger in this strange land, to see old friends in the squirrels that scampered through the woods and crossed his path, to find alders, and blossoming dog-wood, the mountain brake, and his childhood's friend the mullen stalk. Even to this day when he came upon an orchid, or a wild rose, with its small pink petals (smaller in this red sterile soil than in his native country), or when a humming bird in its shining plumage came to sip honey from the flowers, or when in the still woods he heard the liquid notes of a hermit thrush, the romance and the reverence of youth thrilled him. John Keeler was something of a poet, though the needs of his family at Eureka South kept the bread and butter question in the foreground. He must see "old man Palmer" to talk over the death of Cummins. He was comforted a little when the old man's small black dog, Bruce, came frisking down the trail to meet him; and when Sammy, the cat, tail in air and purring a thousand welcomes, rubbed his sleek fur against the visitor's boots, Keeler fore-tasted sweet solace for sorrow. "Why, hello, Keeler! Mighty glad to see you!" And then in a changed voice, "You're fagged out. It's an all-fired steep trail. Come in." "No, thank you," replied Keeler, and he seated himself upon a chair in the door-yard. "It's pleasant out here under the pines. I want to talk." "I've been expecting you," said Palmer, "ever since the news came about Cummins." "Well, if it wasn't for my wife and boy, I'd pull up stakes, and get out of California." "Don't blame you. This thieving and promiscuous killing are enough to discourage anybody. Too bad they can't get the robbers, just this once, and string 'em up." "I'm a peaceable man, as you know, Mr. Palmer. But I'd be willing to hang those fellows with my own hands. It wouldn't help Will Cummins any, but it would give me solid satisfaction." "Well, Keeler, I'm glad of one thing, Cummins was a bachelor, like me, and not a married man." "I've thought about that, but it don't give me any comfort. Will ought to have married years ago. His life might have counted for something then; but now it seems as if it had been wasted." "Maybe you think my life's been wasted, too?" "No, Mr. Palmer, you know I could never think that, after your kindness to Will and me." "Well, Will Cummins was more generous than I ever was," answered Palmer. "Main trouble with Will was his temper, which was no better than mine. Every bad man in these mountains knew that Will Cummins was ready to treat him to his own medicine." "Yes, I wish he hadn't said so much about defending yourself. I wish he hadn't carried a pistol that day. He wouldn't have been so ready to fight, perhaps." "One thing certain," observed Palmer, "if he was going to carry a pistol at all, he ought to have had it handy, not under his duster." "Well, it was natural to think the danger past when they had got safely away from the South Yuba. The robbers knew their man, and they played a shrewd game." "It's easy enough to win when you play with loaded dice. I get boiling mad when I think of these low-down, worthless rascals who don't stop at any meanness, ready to commit murder for fifteen cents. They ought to be treated worse than rattlesnakes. But, as you said just now, all this don't help Will Cummins. But Will is all right, John. You know that as well as I do." "I came up here to hear you say so. I've pretty near lost faith in God and man, I reckon." "I lost faith in man long ago," answered Palmer, smiling sardonically. "If the fall of Adam and the curse of Cain are fables,--as they are, of course,--they are just as true as Æsop's fables, for all that. They hit off human nature. But man isn't all. I've never belonged to any church, as I've often told you. But the longer I live the more I trust in Providence. Will Cummins was a good man, and he's all right, I tell you." "I feel that way myself. But I know my feeling in the matter don't alter the facts any. How do you figure it out?" "Well, my creed's about this: in spite of all the wickedness, this is a beautiful old world. How gloriously the stars shine down every night upon these mountains! Or, take Bruce and Sammy here"--and the old man caressed his pets--"why, they love me to distraction. And I love both the scamps, I certainly do. But what is that to your affection for your partner, John Keeler? It is a good old world, I say. Then the Power that's in it and back of it, 'in whom we live and move and have our being,' is a good Power. Well, then, God is good. And that's all we need to know. If God is good, we can depend upon Him in life and death. We don't know what death means. But it's only a natural thing. It can't matter much. I will know more about it, I guess, when I am dead." "I don't doubt you're right, Mr. Palmer. Once, back in Maryland, I heard a minister say that grief comes to open our hearts to God. It was at my mother's funeral. I reckon he was right, too. But my heart bleeds for Will Cummins." Palmer looked at him critically a moment, as if weighing him in the balance. Then, as if completely satisfied with his friend, he spoke: "John Keeler, I want to talk business. I want you to hunt those rascals down. I'll back you for any amount. I'm past sixty, or I might attend to the business myself. You're still a young man. I'll see that Mrs. Keeler and the boy lack for nothing while you are gone. And I don't expect you to take any risks. I simply want you to get the facts, then turn them over to the authorities. Will you do it?" Keeler hesitated. "There's very little to go on. The robbers have cleared out, and nobody knows who they were or where they went." "Don't you believe it," said Palmer. "If decent people don't know, there are the other kind." "I reckon you and I would be about as helpless as babes with 'the other kind.' We've always despised them and kept away from them." "But they're human, like the rest of us. You and I understand human nature pretty well. We won't breathe a word to any one. You tell Mrs. Keeler you're attending to important business for me, that I'm grub-staking you, and that there's something in it for you and the family. If the neighbors get wind of it, they'll think, perhaps, you are attending to money matters for me. They seem to be mighty curious about my money." "Well, I might do it, if I only knew how to go about it." "Well, Keeler, I think I can give you a start. And while we eat some dinner I'll tell you a story that will surprise you." These Californians were certainly two of a kind; but then, two of a kind, though both be kings, is not a strong hand. CHAPTER VII An Old Sweetheart When his guest had been abundantly supplied with the best the larder afforded, not forgetting condensed milk for the coffee, Palmer began his story. "Since you were here last, Keeler," he began, "I've been to San Francisco. Nothing remarkable about that, of course. Any man might have business at the Hibernia Bank. Then again, it's worth the trip from Moore's Flat just to stand on the seashore an hour." "Yes," said Keeler with enthusiasm, "there's a noble sight." "But," continued Palmer, "I'm too old a man for pleasure trips. And for that matter, I'm about through with business, too. I went to San Francisco for a special reason." Keeler looked up from his coffee inquiringly. "I went to see an old sweetheart." Here Keeler smiled. It seemed odd to think of old man Palmer going upon such a mission. "I suppose I ought to say that the woman snubbed me when I was young, and later cared more for my money than she did for me. But I loved that woman thirty years ago, and was fool enough to think I might win her if I could strike it rich here in California. I'm older now, and wiser, I hope. If a woman won't marry a man 'for richer or poorer'--especially poorer--she oughtn't to marry him at all. There's my nephew who was out here ten years ago. Married without a dollar and got the best wife in the world. No, Keeler; I may be a fool; but I'm not the kind of fool to marry an old woman because she hankers after my money. "I went to San Francisco because I pity the woman, and because I thought I might help her to become more decent and self-respecting." Here the old man paused. Keeler noticed that he was much embarrassed. "I would have kept this affair to myself, Keeler; but we must get the rascals who shot Cummins, so you ought to know the whole story. "Harriet Chesney was a pretty girl thirty years ago. Rather too proud of her good looks, and a selfish minx. But a young man who has had a good mother thinks all women are good, I guess. I was terribly cut up when she refused me; but I hate to think now what might have happened if she had accepted me!" "Why, here ten years back, a brother of mine in Michigan wrote to warn me that Harriet Chesney was coming to California to murder me. He said she had burned two houses for the insurance; had got mixed up with several men and had robbed them." "A regular she-devil," remarked Keeler. "Well, sure enough, she turned up here in California, nearly ten years ago. And very likely she would have killed me if she could have got hold of my property. And if all the gold I ever mined could have saved her from the sin and misery of these past ten years, she would have been welcome to it. But I couldn't buy her a clear conscience, could I? "She got as far as Moore's Flat. Hung around there several days till she saw me at Haggerty's store. My old clothes must have disappointed her. It would certainly humiliate any woman, good or bad, to associate with such a scarecrow. So she cleared out, and went to San Francisco. I guess she found out she was only a novice compared with the women down there. And I guess in a year or two she was like all the rest. I tell you, it was an awful thing to think of. It's bad enough to see a man go wrong--but a woman!--and a woman you once loved--and still love, as God still loves her!" The old man had to pause here; and he arose abruptly, as if to put aside his dishes; and Keeler, respecting his emotion, looked out of the window. "Well, last March, Harriet wrote me a letter. Gave me her address. Said she was dying, and would like to see me. It was a week or more before the letter reached me, for the trails were badly drifted and I had been shut up here some time. John Woolsey brought the letter, and stayed until I read it, to see if anything was wanted. Said he would look out for Bruce and Sammy, so I got on my snow-shoes and started. "I reached San Francisco next day. I almost wished the woman was dead, as she had a right to be by that time. If she was dead, I wouldn't have to say anything to hurt her. Well, I called at the address she gave, which was in the edge of Chinatown. I tell you it was disgusting to run the gauntlet there, among those creatures.--I found the woman had been taken to the city hospital several days before and whether she was dead or alive the head she-devil of the place didn't seem to know or care. "I found her at the hospital, sure enough. The doctor said she was getting better, and would probably live. I didn't know whether to be glad or sorry; and I was tempted to go home and write her a letter. She might not care to see me now, anyway. "But I stayed and had a talk with her; and I am glad I did, though I couldn't help remembering the old rhyme, "When the Devil was sick, the Devil a saint would be: When the Devil got well, the devil a saint was he." "Harriet Chesney needed a friend, and she was glad to see me. She was more than glad to know that I had come as soon as I could. Said she had told herself I would not fail her--that it was the snow and the cañon and not some other reason that kept me away. Said she thought she was going to die; and that she wanted me to know she was sorry she had done wrong. The doctor had told her she would get well, so she was going to be an honest woman if I would help her. And what do you suppose she wanted me to do?" "Lend her some money, most likely," said Keeler. "No, sir. She didn't want any money. Said she wanted to write to me every Sunday, and to see me whenever I came to San Francisco. Of course, I agreed, though I told her I don't go down to the city once a year, as a usual thing. I told her if she thought she needed me to write and I would try to get down. That seemed to satisfy her. "Well, she has written to me every week since then. By the first of June she was able to work. And since then she has earned an honest living, scrubbing floors. Here is her last letter." Keeler took the proffered sheet and read: "San Francisco, Sept. 5, 1879. Mr. Robert Palmer. Dear Sir: I have just read about the murder of Mr. Cummins. The papers say he lived at Moore's Flat, and worked a claim once on Fillmore Hill. So he must have been a friend of yours. It is too bad. I might help you find the murderers, as all the bad men of Nevada County are known down here. If you will come down here or send somebody, I will help you all I can. I am getting along all right. Very respectfully, Harriet Somers." "I thought you said her name was Chesney," remarked Keeler, as he returned the letter. "Oh well, she claims to have been married to two or three different men. Calling herself Mrs. Somers seems to help her keep her self-respect. She says Somers is dead. For my part, I never enquired whether there ever was a sure-enough Mr. Somers or not. But I am sure she can help us in this business. I wish you would have a talk with the woman." "There is no harm in that. I'll do it. And if I can find anything to go on, I'll undertake to follow up those fellows. Perhaps I can find out something at Nevada City. I reckon I'll have to let you look out for Mrs. Keeler and the boy, as you say." "I'm mighty glad to hear you say that. And I'll make out a check right now. Smith, the livery man at Eureka South, will cash it; and you can take the stage out to-morrow morning." "All right. I reckon we'd better not lose any time." Palmer had already got out pen and ink. It was something of a "chore" for the old man to draw a check. Miners' paralysis was creeping on, and two years later the best he could do was to make his mark. But to-day he prolonged his labors, making out a second check, to be cashed when Keeler reached San Francisco. The business was hardly transacted when Henry Francis walked in. "Glad to see you, Francis!" exclaimed the old man. "What news from Moore's Flat?" He exchanged glances with Keeler which seemed to mean that their business should be regarded as strictly private, although Henry Francis was the friend of both, and had won the confidence and affection of old man Palmer. Francis and Palmer held the same political faith. The former came of a distinguished Democratic family, so that the old man's protection and loyalty had been bestowed upon him upon his arrival in the gold fields twenty years before. Furthermore, the old man had proved the unfailing honesty of the younger man. Jew bankers, in blowing dirt and impurities from gold dust offered for sale, were not over-careful about blowing away gold dust, too, which would be caught on buckskin placed out of sight behind the counter. Palmer's dust was very fine, and more than once he had suffered through such sharp practice, only to vow he never would suffer so again. In Francis he had found a strictly honest banker, whose virtue he was inclined to attribute to correct political principles, overlooking the moral delinquencies of other Democratic neighbors. But the old man, through long years of experience with human nature in California, had grown extremely cautious and secretive. Probably no one would ever have been the wiser in regard to his old sweetheart and her sad history except for the escape of Cummins' murderers. And now it was not necessary that any man other than Keeler should know. "Glad to see you, Francis. What news from Moore's Flat?" Francis looked grave. "I suppose Keeler has told you all I know. Seven days gone and nothing heard of the robbers. I shall expect a telegram to-morrow or next day, telling of Will Cummins' burial in the village cemetery at home. And his old father and mother are going to be denied the small comfort of knowing that the murderers have been caught. "Keeler, you were Cummins' partner once. Do you have any idea who the robbers were?" "I am sorry to say, I don't. This country is full of bad men. I have thought of the blacklegs along Kanaka Creek. A robbery in Jackass Ravine was traced to that gang. But the rascals stand together, and are ready to defend a partner with alibis or pistols." If Keeler felt constrained to withhold information about his intended visit to San Francisco in the capacity of detective, Francis on his part saw no reason to state that he had just employed Bed-bug Brown in a similar capacity. For in descending the cañon of the Middle Yuba, he had gone a mile out of his way up the river to the cabin of this worthy gentleman, and finding him at home had promptly engaged his services. Brown, like Keeler, was to take the stage to Nevada City on the morrow, provided with a fee for current expenses. "Well," said Palmer, "I am glad for my part that the California gold craze is coming to an end. When the farmers down in the Sacramento Valley get the upper hand, they will stop hydraulic mining, for it keeps covering their good soil with sand and clay. The Government authorities say we are filling up San Francisco Bay, too; so Uncle Sam is going to step in and do something. Then those rowdies along Kanaka Creek and all the other bad men in this country will have to move on." "And so will the rest of us," smiled Francis. "A man who has made his pile can afford to retire. But what about Keeler here, and me?" "Well," persisted Palmer, "I think Will Cummins was right in wanting to leave the gold fields. Gold makes people crazy. Half our gamblers and thieves would be decent men in a decent community." "Mr. Palmer means," said Keeler, "that Pat Flynn, who is a good Democrat, but who doesn't pay back the fifty dollars he borrowed from Mr. Palmer last winter, would be a better Democrat back in Connecticut, making wooden hams and nutmegs." With this he shook hands with his friends and departed, for it was evident Francis had some private business with the old man. When they were alone, Francis said: "You know, Mr. Palmer, that we Pennsylvanians stand together. I have undertaken to settle up Cummins' affairs. I find you hold his note for a thousand dollars." "I do. Lent him the money when he made a fresh start a few years back. But I supposed I stood to lose it when the robbers took Cummins' gold the other day. I certainly could afford to lose it." "Well, you don't have to lose it, Mr. Palmer. Cummins left mining stock at the bank in my care that will more than cover the debt. The fact is, I borrowed the value of the stock from him. Strictly speaking, I got him to put a couple of thousand into a paying proposition; and he left everything in my hands. So I am going to get you to cancel Cummins' note and to take mine instead." "Francis, you are an honest man. The money is no great object with me. But because I have found out that honesty is a thing that ought to be encouraged, especially among friends, I will take your note and cancel the other." So this business was settled. Robert Palmer, governed by kindly feeling rather than hard sense, overlooked his friend's weakness for speculation, rather counting it as honesty. CHAPTER VIII "Bed-Bug Brown," Detective When Mat Bailey drove the stage out of Graniteville the next morning, John Keeler and "Bed-bug Brown" were the only passengers. Brown had spent the previous evening learning all that he could about Mamie Slocum and her young admirers. He had actually learned that a young man from Nevada City who signed himself J. C. P. Collins had paid her attentions. He had also discovered that the young school-teacher had more than once expressed much admiration for Mat Bailey. In view of what Henry Francis had told him of Mat's reflections on the school-teacher, Brown resolved, quietly and of his own accord, to keep an eye upon Mat as well as upon Mamie. The little man was unusually quiet, revolving various theories in his head, and contemplating the magnificence of the ten thousand dollar reward. But the presence of John Keeler, Cummins' old partner, suggested the wisdom of gleaning information from this source. So, in order to impress Keeler with his seniority and larger experience, he began: "You don't remember, I suppose, Mr. Keeler, when camels were introduced here in the gold fields?" "No, that was before my time." "It was back in fifty-six, before the water-ditch companies had fairly got started. It was as dry as Sahara on these mountains then, and it is no wonder somebody thought of camels." "Well, when you think of our ostrich farms, camels don't seem out of place in California. Did you ever think, Mr. Brown, what extremes of climate we have right here in Nevada County? Along about the tenth of December they are cutting ice up in the Sierras while they are picking oranges in the western end of the county." "That is pretty good for the banner gold county of the State. Most of us forget everything but the gold," replied Brown, smiling inwardly, to think how easily this remark would lead up to the desired topic. "I'm getting sick of the gold," replied honest John Keeler. "All that was handy to get at has been carried away. No chance left for a poor man. It takes a big company with capital to run the business of hydraulic mining as they do at Moore's Flat and North Bloomfield. Quartz mining is still worse. By the time you've sunk a shaft and put up a stamping-mill, you've mortgaged your quartz for more than it is worth, perhaps. It takes capital to run a quartz mine." "Yes," assented Brown, "this country has seen its best days." "That's what old man Palmer says," remarked Keeler, looking across the cañon at Palmer's Diggings. "You and Cummins did pretty well over there fifteen years ago," and the little detective's eyes twinkled at his own cleverness. "We made a living; that's about all." "But Cummins was a wealthy man some years back." "Well, his partner never was," laughed Keeler. "If I could scrape together the dust, I'd leave these mountains as he tried to." "Who do you suppose the robbers were?" "If I could make a good guess, I'd go after that ten thousand dollar reward," replied Keeler. "There's an awful tough gang over in Jim Crow Cañon," said Brown, throwing out another feeler. "Can you tell me of a place in these gold fields where you won't find a tough gang? I was in Forest City the other day. I took the trail over the mountains through Alleghany. Both of those places are live towns with cemeteries,--well settled places, you know. But a tougher lot of citizens you never saw. Gambling, drinking, and fighting, and Sunday the worst day of the seven." "What impresses me most about Alleghany," said Brown, "is the vast number of tin cans on the city dump. It makes a man hungry for the grub his mother used to cook." "You're right there," said Keeler, and lapsed into silence. They were at Moore's Flat presently, where they changed to the four-horse stage-coach; and the little detective's attention was absorbed by the actions of Mat Bailey, who seemed strangely quiet. A guilty conscience, perhaps? Several people were going down to Nevada City. So Keeler and Brown did not resume their conversation, but journeyed on, each absorbed in his own thoughts. To Keeler the trip was a sad one. In the dark woods along Bloody Run, and as they passed the tall rock by the roadside beyond, he thought of robbers and his murdered partner. At the store in North Bloomfield he could hardly resist the impulse to insult the cowardly store-keeper who had stood by and allowed Cummins to be shot. As they dove down into the cañon of the South Yuba, he groaned to think of the murders for gold committed therein. Could not a protecting Providence have saved his friend? Was it the decree of fate that one who had manfully defended the right for twenty-five years in that lawless country should be cut off just when he was quitting it forever? Perhaps, he thought, this very hour his partner was being laid at rest in his "ain countree."--And his soul? Well, he believed as Palmer did, that all is well with the soul of a brave man. Was he, Keeler, on a fool's errand to San Francisco? Well, he had determined on his own account to do a little investigating in Nevada City that very day. So had Mat Bailey. Hence his unusual taciturnity. So had "Bed-bug Brown," and he kept the secret to himself. Arrived at Nevada City, with its steep streets, compactly built up at the centre of the town, church and county court-house on the hillside, the traveler finds himself fairly out of the mountains, the luring fatal mountains, whose very soil has now the color of gold and now the color of blood. Mat Bailey's first concern was the care of his horses. Keeler went to look up his friend Sheriff Carter. And "Bed-bug Brown" partook of a frugal dinner at the moderate cost of two bits. He sat where he could observe the movements of Mat, and lingered in the neighborhood until the stage-driver had disposed of his own dinner and set out to call upon Mamie Slocum. This young lady now spent most of her time at home. She had hardly recovered from the shock of the tragedy; and her imagination had conjured up a visit from the sheriff for her part therein. Instead it was only that splendid Mat Bailey, flicking the dust from his boots with his handkerchief, and mustering up courage to knock at the door! How glad she was to see him! And Mat thought that she looked very sad and pretty! She conducted him to the parlor, and proffered the seat of honor, a hair-cloth rocking-chair. "Let me call Mother. She will be so glad to hear about her friends in Graniteville." "I'd rather see you alone, if you don't mind." And Mat blushed through his tan, but assured himself that duty prompted, if pleasure did consent. It was the best arrangement all round, as "Bed-bug Brown" himself thought,--for this worthy gentleman was eaves-dropping in the cellar, with only a floor of thin boards between himself and these interesting young people. Under other circumstances Miss Slocum would have been fascinated at the idea of a _tête-à-tête_ with this interesting, stalwart man of the mountains. But something in his manner, and her own overwrought nerves, told her there was trouble ahead. Should she run away, should she use a woman's wiles in self-defense, or should she confide in this handsome man? Distracted by these conflicting thoughts, she presented a charming picture of alarmed innocence, as Bailey thought; and his heart yearned to offer protection. "Miss Slocum, I don't know how to put it, and I don't know what mean things you are going to think of me"-- And now Mamie began to sympathize with the big stage-driver, who seemed as much embarrassed as she. "The fact is, Mr. Francis asked me to see you." "Mr. Francis is a good friend of mine. He secured the school at Graniteville for me." Bailey, grateful for this help, continued: "He thought I might inquire about a matter"-- "Heavens!" thought Mamie, "does Mr. Francis know about my trouble? Mat Bailey must have told him!" If her intuition guided her truly in this matter, it no less truly recognized a friend in Mat. "The fact is"--he began, and then he hesitated. "Damn it!" he thought, "how could he say things that would hurt this lovely creature?" "Mr. Bailey, I think I know what you mean. You want to know why I told that robber about Mr. Cummins's valise. It has nearly worried me to death; and I don't wonder you all demand an explanation." "Don't put it that way, I beg of you, Miss Slocum!" exclaimed Mat, greatly relieved that she had come to his rescue, but no less greatly concerned that he should appear in the hateful character of accuser and informer. "We don't demand anything. We know you didn't have anything to do with those robbers. Mr. Cummins was a friend of yours; and you wouldn't do nothing to injure an enemy!" Mat could use negatives properly when not excited. The conversation was becoming less and less interesting to the little man in the cellar. But it was not easy to beat a retreat. Mamie began to weep softly, but more from joy than otherwise. After the strain of the past week these honest words of Mat were balm to her. "I--I will tell you everything, Mr. Bailey. Oh, how I have wanted to talk to some friend about it! But it was so dreadful! I couldn't breathe a word of it even to Mother." Mat was all tenderness now; and the man under the floor began to prick up his ears. "I was talking with a young man only a week before that dreadful day, and he said highwaymen are too generous to steal money from people like Mr. Cummins. And that the best thing anyone could do when a stage is robbed would be to tell the robbers about the property of passengers like him. I didn't believe it at first, and now I know how frightfully foolish I was. But the young man, who had been in jail once himself, was so positive, that I really believed a criminal has a sense of honor. And when the robber asked whose valise that was, I was so frightened the words came right out before I realized what I had done." "Every word you say is God's truth, Miss Slocum, and I hope you will forgive me for bothering you this way." It did occur to Mat that he might inquire who that young jail-bird might be. And "Bed-bug Brown" was hoping that his name would be mentioned. But Mat reflected that this was none of his business; and that it did not matter anyhow. If Miss Slocum did not care to mention the man's name he would not ask for it. She had behaved nobly, and he admired her from the bottom of his heart. "Really, Mr. Bailey, I am glad you gave me this chance to explain. You don't know what I have suffered. And then to think that I deserved to suffer it, and more, too, for causing the death of my own friend!" And here the tears came again, honest tears, as Mat knew full well. He rather envied Cummins that so beautiful a creature should grieve for him. "Now look here, Mamie, it is all right to be sorry that Mr. Cummins got killed. Every honest man and woman in Nevada County is sorry. But you didn't cause his death, any more than I did. I never felt meaner in my life than I did that day, holding those horses and looking down into the barrel of that robber's gun. He had me, until he started for Cummins. And it was all over so quick, I hardly knew what happened. But I can't quite forgive myself for not jumping down after that robber as soon as ever he uncovered me. It would probably have been too late; and the horses would have run away, most likely; but still I wish I had jumped. But because I didn't jump I'm not going to hold myself responsible for Cummins' death. The robbers must hang for it, and not you and me. As for what you said, I don't believe it made any difference at all. They were bound to get all the gold on the stage that day; and they knew Cummins had some."-- "That's just it, Mr. Bailey, and that's what makes it so hard for me." Mat saw he had been swept off his feet by his own eloquence, and so he tried again. "Well, they would have got it anyhow. They might have wasted a minute or two more hunting for it, but they would have found it, and Cummins would have fought for it just the same." "Yes, that is what I've thought," said Mamie. "Oh, why did he risk his life so?" "I'll tell you, Mamie," said Mat, "everybody in this country is crazy about gold--miners, gamblers, bankers, robbers,--everybody. They're like hungry wolves, ready to tear one another to pieces. Only the wolves have more sense. Gold is of no earthly use to anyone. I'm sick and tired of the whole business." And Mat rose, hat in hand, to go. "I hope you'll call again, Mr. Bailey," said the the girl shyly. Here was a friend in need! A great bashful, manly fellow, so kind and sympathetic! "I'll be more than pleased to," replied Mat, determined to prove his philosophy that there are things far more precious than gold. Fascinated with the idea, he loitered in the neighborhood longer than he would otherwise have done; and, glancing back at the dear girl's house, he was astonished to see "Bed-bug Brown" emerge from the cellar. Brown saw him at about the same time. There was no escape for either, so they drifted together good-naturedly. The little man extended his hand: "Congratulations! When is the wedding to be?" Bailey simply smiled, and said: "Bed-bug Brown, detective!" CHAPTER IX The Home-Coming of a Dead Man Meanwhile the body of the murdered man--noble countenance peaceful now after twenty-five years of adventure--had been traveling eastward to its final resting place. The body of William F. Cummins came home in state--home at last, where the familiar caw of crow and tinkle of cow-bell might almost conjure the dead back to life again. Three years before, at the time of the great Centennial, when, in the full vigor of manhood, Will Cummins had visited his native town, no sounds had so stirred old memories of fields and mountains as those homely sounds of crow and cow-bell. Then neighbors had flocked about the bold Californian, eager to press his hand and to look into his fearless eyes. Now, robbed and murdered, he came home again, life's journey ended. The quiet village was appalled, and shaken with anger. Friends and neighbors flocked to the funeral--indignant youths, solemn old men and women. True, the younger generation had hardly known of the Californian's existence. To them he seemed to have come out of the Sierras like a Rip Van Winkle, who slept soundly on, asking no questions. But to the old men he had died a youth, full of promise. They remembered well the eager buoyancy with which he and his comrades had set out for the gold fields. Middle-aged men and women remembered his school days in Reedsville, when he was one of them, when they were all healthy, merry boys and girls together. The funeral over, and the Californian safely laid in his native soil on the hillside, men gathered in groups on the corners of the village street, or stepped into the bank to look at the six-shooter which had failed their friend in his hour of need. The local minister, gazing upon the dead man's revolver, was heard to remark: "They that take the sword shall perish with the sword." But the bystanders would not endure the doctrine. Their Anglo-Saxon blood recoiled. And a former Californian, who was an old friend of Cummins, stepped forward and said: "Mr. Lamb, Will Cummins was not afraid to perish with the sword. And, if he could have drawn that revolver, there would have been two dead robbers. This doctrine of non-resistance is wrong, dead wrong. We proved that in California, just as you people proved it here in the Civil War. Will Cummins was not afraid to defend his rights." "But," replied the minister, who in spite of his name seemed eager for the combat, "the Civil War was a national crime. Think of the hundreds of thousands of young men, North and South, who perished." "Yes, Mr. Lamb, the war _was_ a crime. And Jeff Davis and the other criminals ought to have been hanged, just as those stage-robbers ought to be." "Don't you see, my friend," replied the minister, "that violence breeds violence?" "Then," rather scornfully, "you think Will Cummins did wrong to defend his property?" "He would have been alive to-day if he hadn't." "But that's not the point. Will Cummins died for a principle. He believed in self-defense, and was not afraid to risk his life." "Of course," said the minister, "I admit that he was a brave man. But Christ said, 'if any man take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also'--'turn the other cheek'--'resist not evil'--'they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.'" "Well," said the Californian, "I don't dispute the fact that people who carry weapons are likely to get killed. What I say is, I admire a man who is not afraid of getting killed when he knows he's right. It may be just as honorable to perish with the sword as to be crucified." This statement, savoring of the heresy that was introduced into American thought both by soldiers returning from the Civil War and by men returning from the lawless life of the West, rather shocked the minister, who was a good and sincere man. But he only said: "Surely, you are a Christian?" "Well," replied the Californian, "I don't know. If Jesus Christ said self-defense is wrong, then He was mistaken." Here the argument ended. But the theme is a fruitful one; and every thoughtful man and woman in Reedsville was bound to consider it. Dead men tell no tales and make no arguments. Will Cummins slept peacefully on. But the facts of the case were too plain to be ignored; and the Californian's doubt of Christ's infallibility was widely discussed. It was indeed a great issue, involving the fundamental principles of Christianity. A brave man, who is not a scoffer, attacks the doctrine of non-resistance, and lays down his life for the faith that is in him. A martyr, then. Martyrdom in itself cannot establish a principle; but we respect martyrdom. Turn the argument around: the martyrdom of Christ did not establish the correctness of His teaching. But this leads to a further question, namely, the nature of Christ--was Christ human or divine? We may honestly say He was both; for if ever man was inspired He was. But He might have made mistakes, as other inspired teachers have done. And what did He really teach? Not one word of Scripture was written by His hand. The spirit of Christ--this is the important thing. The letter killeth, the spirit giveth life. Did He not caution us to look not to Himself but to God? "Why callest thou me good? One there is who is good, even God" ... "Not those who say, 'Lord, Lord,' but those who do the will of My Father which is in heaven." Self-defense is a duty which civilized man owes to civilization. Will you tell me that the hundreds of thousands of Armenians who, making no resistance, have perished like sheep at the hands of the Turks, were better men than the four thousand who fled to the mountains and fought off their persecutors till help arrived? Read of the heroic defense, when for fifty-three days the men of that gallant band, with a few rifles, saved their women and children from worse than death. I say these men performed a duty to God and man--to the Turk himself, into whose black heart they shot more virtue and honesty than ever were implanted by the hundreds of thousands who died like sheep. Civilized man must maintain himself, else the world will relapse into barbarism. To perish with the sword in defense of home and friends may be a sacred duty. If I have any quarrel with the Californians it is not with their courage and daring. These were exemplary. And if it is right to defend one's life, it is right to defend one's property, by means of which life is supported. But the dead men sleep soundly there on the hill, unmindful of praise or blame, and old man Palmer, himself in a pauper's grave by the Middle Yuba, robbed in his turn, and by a trusted friend, tells no tales, for he sleeps serenely. CHAPTER X The Travels of John Keeler John Keeler had found his friend the sheriff at the Citizens' Bank, putting up money on a bet that Cummins' murderers would not be caught within a year. Sheriff Carter was dealing in futures, as it were. Nothing would have pleased him better than to lay hands on those highwaymen; but,--thoroughly discouraged at the outlook,--like a true sportsman he enjoyed the humor of betting against himself in the vague hope that such action might lead to something. He was more than pleased to see Keeler, whose mysterious air clearly indicated that something was up. They walked immediately to the court-house, and were soon closeted together. "Now look here, Keeler, if you're going to play detective, you don't want to hang out a sign, 'John Keeler, Detective.' There's blood in your eye. Any crook could spot you a block away." Keeler laughed, and looked rather sheepish. "Well," he said, "there's no harm done, I reckon. Those fellows are probably a thousand miles from here by this time." "What makes you think so?" asked Carter. "They may be right here in Nevada City. Some of those fellows can throw a perfect bluff on a pair of two-spots." "Well, Carter, I thank you for your suggestion. After this, I'll be careful. That is, I'll appear to be careless. I haven't any inkling as to where those thugs are, and I've come to you to get some points." "I don't blame you a bit, Keeler, for wanting to look into this affair. Cummins was your partner once; and a better man never lived in Nevada County. I hope to God I can string up the men who killed him. Just step in here." In an ante-room Carter had set up two straw men dressed in the discarded clothes of the highwaymen. "Of course, this ain't going to help much," explained Carter, deprecatingly. "But it does give you a fair idea of the height of those fellows. Mat Bailey was in here the other day to help me with these dummies. He seems to have a pretty good idea of what the men looked like." As his mission to San Francisco was confidential, and inasmuch as Palmer's Mrs. Somers was an unknown quantity, Keeler refrained from mentioning her. He proceeded to San Francisco that day; looked up Mrs. Somers, who gave him the names and descriptions of a dozen bad men of Nevada County; and the next day he returned to hunt up some of these same bad men. One of them was O'Leary of You Bet, whom he found without trouble. But he got very little encouragement from O'Leary; and he very soon discovered how hard it is for an honest man to get any sort of satisfaction from thieves and liars. In the absence of any definite information he resolved to turn eastward, across the Sierras. He was on the right track, as we know. As far as Omaha it was not so very difficult to make a fairly thorough search for the criminals. However, this took time, and although he happened to pick up information here and there about a couple of rather odd-looking Californians traveling eastward with gold, he often felt that he was on a fool's errand. He fell in with Californians everywhere. If the building of the transcontinental railroad had served no other purpose, it had sent a steady stream of people away from the gold fields--a circumstance that made his mission seem all the more hopeless. Among so many how could he distinguish the criminals? True, he could distinguish an ex-miner among a thousand. And whenever such a man extended his right hand and said, "Put it there, partner!" Keeler could not refuse the proffered hand-clasp. At Louisville he encountered a man whom he was sure he had seen in Nevada City. The man evidently recognized him also, and for an instant Keeler thought he saw a wild gleam in the man's eye. Then it was, "Put it there, partner!" and Keeler placed his clean right hand into the grimy palm indicated. "The drinks are on me, this morning," said the man, marching him off to the nearest bar. And Keeler was so much in the humor of the thing that he was soon telling the story of the Frenchman who took lessons in English from a Kentuckian: "What do you say in Anglais when one offer you a drink, and you accep' le invite?" "Don't care if I do," replied the instructor. "Don car fido," repeated Frenchy. "And what eef you do not accep' le invite?" The Kentuckian looked grave, slowly shook his head, and finally answered in despair: "You've got me there, Frenchy!" The Californian laughed heartily--rather too heartily, Keeler thought; and then inquired: "Going East or West?" "Westward for me," replied Keeler; "and you?" "Well, I reckon I've played my last game of poker in Nevada City. The East for me. With a little dust for capital, this country seems right good. Why, out there in the Sierras, you know as well as I do, the soil's too poor to feed lizards. Not much like the blue grass country of Kaintuck." "Well," said Keeler, "if I had made my pile, Maryland would be good enough for me. As it is, California is all right, barring those same pesky lizards." "The boys set too stiff a pace out there, though," replied the ex-miner. "Why, many a Saturday night I've seen fellows drop into town with a hundred and fifty dollars in dust, and then borrow the money to take the stage out Monday morning." "I don't go in for sporting myself," said Keeler, "so I guess my character won't be ruined. The churches have got started, and they are giving the saloons a good deal of trouble." "By thunder! that reminds me," quoth the Californian, "this here is a Christian country, and I'm going to join the church, first thing I do." "And spin California yarns to a Sunday-School class," suggested Keeler. "Bet your class will be a large one." "I'll do it, by thunder! The very thing! And I'll shoot any lad as gets impertinent." Keeler was clearly out of his element, and thought it time to terminate the brief acquaintance. "John Keeler is my name; and I can swear I've seen you in Nevada City. But you have the best of me." "Why," replied the Californian, as cool as you please, "my name's Darcy." It was the man who had killed Will Cummins! But John Keeler was none the wiser, as Darcy quickly saw. He and Collins had reached Louisville undetected. Had there assumed the character of honest miners, shipped their bullion by express, a part to New Orleans and a part to Philadelphia, and were on the point of dissolving partnership. Darcy soon afterward assumed the name of Thorn, set up in the lumber business at Union City, Indiana, where it is but a few steps across the border into Ohio,--and became a prosperous and respected citizen. He actually associated himself with the leading church of the town and was looked upon by the young men as a Californian who had succeeded. Honest John Keeler, who was well acquainted with the type, as he thought, could only remark, as his train sped westward, "There is a sensible miner! One who has safely transferred his money from saloons and gambling dens and robbers to the famous blue grass country. Good luck to him!" He had well-nigh forgotten the incident when Darcy was arrested three years later. A whole year had passed before Keeler returned home, discouraged. In the meantime, as we shall see, the snows of the Sierras had not chilled the budding affections of Mat Bailey; but the hot sun of another California summer had stricken down old man Palmer. Keeler mistrusted that something was wrong, as he had not heard from his old friend for several months. Fortunately, his wife and child were well and happy, but they had impatiently waited for his return. From them he had heard every week or two. At length he was safely back across the Sierras. The cañon of the American River had never seemed more terrible as the train hovered over the brink of it. And now they were at Colfax, the junction of the narrow gauge railroad, whence, at nine cents a mile, you travel northward to Nevada City. The iron bars on the high, narrow windows of the station, the low whistle of the little engine, like the lonesome cry of a wolf, as it took the high trestle over Bear River, the very bars of dirt in the river bed far below, proclaimed to John Keeler that he had returned to the land of robbers and gold mining. CHAPTER XI The Snows of the Sierras After the heat and turmoil of a day when the children have been especially vexing, what mother does not smile in forgiveness upon the peaceful faces of her offspring, whose characters in sleep appear as spotless as the sheets which cover them? So smiled the sun upon the grown-up children of the Sierras asleep under the winter snow. After the heat and turmoil of the summer, the mad search for gold was over. Save when there was a heavy snowstorm, the Graniteville stage traveled over the mountains, as usual; but no highwayman molested it. It would have been a practical impossibility for a robber to have made off with booty. The snow was light and feathery, and the drifts were often twenty-five feet deep. The web-footed snow-shoes of New England could not be used with advantage in such snow, so recourse was had to skis. But it was difficult to manage these upon the steep trails of the cañons, so that people generally were content to hibernate like grizzlies. Many a miner, glad to indulge his liking of conviviality, would take up his residence in some mountain village for the winter, spending with a liberal hand the precious yellow dust that he had worked so hard to get. Many, forced to keep the wolf from the door, found work with lumbermen and ditch companies. In my opinion, Mat Bailey and Dr. Mason had a decided advantage over both miners and villagers. Like the man-o-war's man of song they enjoyed steady occupations summer and winter, and spent much of their time in the open. The cold was never extreme, the thermometer very rarely dropping below zero Fahrenheit. The dust of summer was buried deep under the gleaming snow, and the air was crisp and exhilarating. Often the doctor was one of Mat's passengers. Often he would leave the stage where some trail wound down into a cañon, and putting on his skis glide away among the great pines, which, covered with snow and ornamented with shining icicles, were scattered over the mountain slopes like great wigwams of white canvas. A doctor anywhere is a welcome visitor and a friend in need; in the wilderness, in the depth of winter he ranks but little lower than the angels. Often, coming to a lonely cabin, fairly buried in snow-drifts, he would climb in through the gable window of the loft; and no doubt his descent to the patient lying below suggested the arrival of a heavenly visitor. One glorious winter day Mamie Slocum through Mat's persuasions accompanied him from Nevada City to Graniteville. He wanted her to see the magnificence of the Sierras in winter. Mamie needed little coaxing. Indeed, her admiration for Mat was making her unmindful of very eligible suitors. Besides, she enjoyed life in the open almost as much as he did. But I suspect on that beautiful winter morning both enjoyed each other's society even more than the scenery. As far as North Bloomfield, she was the only passenger, so well had Mat and the weather bureau contrived matters. He explained that he was really in need of her assistance, for in the open places where the snow had drifted across the road, it was often necessary to attack the drifts with a snow-shovel. He would then pass the reins to Mamie, who, demurely perched aloft, rosy-cheeked and most bewitching, was a picture for an artist. No wonder Mat should have grown confidential and talked about his personal history--which was usually bad form in California, where present fortune counted for everything and family history was regarded as ancient history. He told her how in boyhood he came to California from Virginia with his parents. That was back in the fifties, when respectable women were so rare in the gold fields that their arrival was hailed by the rough miners with a sort of religious fervor. One of Mat's earliest recollections was a scene with emigrant wagon and camp-fire in the background, and in the foreground his mother, clasping him by the hand and greeting a score of bearded men, who, with hats off, were paying her homage. He could remember, too, how they had come over the mountains through Emigrant Gap, passing the graves of the Donner party. The tragedy of the snow-bound emigrants had made a deep impression upon his imagination. He spoke of it to Mamie, and she rather saucily inquired what he would do with her if they, too, were caught in a severe snowstorm. "In the first place," said Mat, "I wouldn't let you start out in a snowstorm. And in the second place, if we should get caught, on the return trip, we would make for the nearest shelter and stay there till traveling was safe again." "Oh, dear, what a stupid adventure that would be! There's very little excitement in this civilized country." Mat laughed. "So this is what you call a civilized country? I don't see any signs of civilization except this road and the water ditch yonder." Mat was quite right. In every direction the frost-king held sway over an unbroken wilderness. The massive ranges of the Sierras, clothed all in white, were as majestic and as untamed as when Fremont and Kit Carson gazed down upon them from their snowy summit. To cross that mountain barrier, ninety-three hundred feet above the level of the sea, would require as much heroism as ever. The wise old Indians knew better than to attempt it; and so did the miners. Only a Fremont or a Kit Carson might pass over that awful divide in safety, pushing on through the deep drifts, half their mules and horses dead, and their comrades staggering with exhaustion. How absolutely essential was that stage-road, winding over the snow fields! Soon Mat perceived signs that made him anxious. They would reach Graniteville without mishap. But the return trip to-morrow? A falling barometer could not have made him feel more certain of an approaching storm. He began to question the disinterestedness which had led him to show Miss Slocum the splendor of the winter landscape. The girl's gay chatter could not drown the voice of his accusing conscience. Fortunately for Mat, at this juncture Dr. Mason came to the rescue like a fairy godfather. They picked the doctor up at North Bloomfield. His baggage included not only his skis and medicine-case but a violin as well. For the doctor was a musical genius; and it had been his proud achievement to construct his own instrument, which friends vowed was as excellent as a Stradivarius. Often of a winter evening his music was more sought after than his medicine. Mamie was delighted. "So there's going to be a party to-night," she exclaimed. Mat promptly seized the opportunity to secure the lion's share of the dances, and immediately congratulated himself upon the approach of the storm, hoping it might bring a whole series of parties. "Bless you, my children," said the doctor, "it will be a pleasure to call off the figures for the likes of you." The word "eugenics" had not been coined as yet, but like all wise physicians the doctor believed in the idea. It made his heart rejoice to watch the budding affection of these normal, healthy young people. And he knew the magic of the violin. And so they waltzed on to their heart's content in the large dining-room of the hotel at Graniteville. At midnight, the feathery snow began to fall, insuring several other blissful nights. Between dances they looked out of doors and windows; when the drifts buried the whole first story of the hotel, the warmth of that great bare room seemed even more genial. "The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men-- Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell." When refreshments were served, so pleased was the doctor with his young friends' pleasure, that he drew them aside to tell them a bit of his family history. "My family," said the doctor, "lived for many generations in Ayrshire, Scotland, neighbors to the family of Robert Burns. And, like the poet's people, they were very poor. No wonder! The poor man has no chance in the old country. Years ago an ancestor of mine leased a tract of worthless swamp land for forty-nine years at a penny an acre per year. By hard labor and perseverance he drained the land and made it productive. So when the forty-nine years were up and the family sought an extension of the lease, the rent went up to one pound an acre. This was pretty hard; but by frugality and perseverance the family still prospered. At the end of the second forty-nine years the rent demanded was five pounds an acre. Think of it--twenty-five dollars a year! That was too much to endure, so my father, then a young blacksmith, was sent over to Canada to buy land. He bought three farms of a hundred acres each, one for himself, one for his brother, and one for their father, paying four dollars an acre. Here again the rich man had the upper hand. For this same land had been sold by the British Government to capitalists for twenty-five cents an acre. Of course, my people had no money to pay cash down, but they quit Scotland nevertheless. They came over in 1832, in a small sailing vessel, which took four weeks to make the passage. Then came another struggle. The land was very productive, but money was scarce and crops brought hardly anything. But at least the Mason family had enough to eat. Finally, after many years, the mortgages were paid off, and the family established." The doctor paused, and Mat thought he saw a reason for Scotch grit. He contrasted such a history with the get-rich-quick methods of California! "America," continued the doctor, "is the land of opportunity. With good health and industry the poor man can succeed." And he looked at Mat significantly. CHAPTER XII The Golden Summer Comes Again The golden summer had come again. To old man Palmer, living alone on the top of Fillmore Hill, the great snow banks stored high upon the mountains meant abundance of water for mining. The strange flowers of California, yellow and red, grown familiar now after many years, made their appeal to him. With the returning summer he welcomed the yellow bird with red crown and black wings. He loved the exhilarating air and the glorious sunshine. But I am afraid the golden glow of morning suggested gold. He was cleaning up several square rods of bed-rock in the ancient river bed on the hill-top, and the dirt was rich in gold. Every morning early, leaving his breakfast dishes unwashed, he carefully shoveled this dirt into his sluices, and watched the water carry mud and sand away. Once in a while he would shut off the water to examine the rich amalgam at each cleat across the trough, removing that which was saturated with gold and replacing it with fresh mercury. This clean-up was going to be especially good, and he was glad to be alone. Treasure like this would tempt his lawless neighbors. He wanted no such rogues round as they had at Angels Camp, Calaveras County, where, according to his last copy of "The California Democrat," the post-office had been robbed of a thousand dollars, including one hundred dollars' worth of postage stamps. Postage stamps! He laughed to think to what straits thieves had come in Calaveras County. Then he thought of his own hard-earned treasures, safely locked up in the Hibernia Bank of San Francisco and with D. O. Mills of Sacramento. Some day kindred back in Connecticut would have cause to praise his frugality and self-denial. Sometimes he thought of his blasted romance and of the poor woman in San Francisco who scrubbed floors for an honest living. Ah, well, life is hard. His own years of toil were nearly over, as he knew by unmistakable signs. Perhaps this rich clean-up would be his last. And so it was; though nearly two years elapsed before a merciful Providence released the old man from this world where thieves break through and steal the fruits of our labors. The Woolsey boys, young men now, with the strength of the hills in bone and muscle, were the old man's chief reliance. They could see that he was failing, and felt sincerely sorry. They noted with what grim determination he stuck to his work. The tenacity inherited from a hundred generations of strong men, farmers, sea-kings, warriors, nerved his old arms and kept strong the will within him. One day about the first of August, in the early afternoon when the sun is hottest, they found the old man within doors, washing dishes. "Sit down, Mr. Palmer," said John, the older of the boys, "and we will do the dishes for you." "Well, boys, go ahead. I know what famous pot-wrastlers ye be. I can't compete with you." And he gladly sat down, to examine a legal document the boys had brought him. For one Dupre, who had a rough farm at the bottom of the cañon and sold the old man vegetables, had sued him for damages, because the dirt washed down from Palmer's diggings had covered up a few square rods of grass land. The damage was slight, but the Frenchman was thrifty, and had sued for a round sum. Palmer was quite willing to pay actual damages, but he had refused to be robbed. A compromise had finally been made, and Dupre agreed to withdraw his suit upon the payment of fifty dollars. To this contract the old man now affixed his signature, in a very shaky hand. "There, I'm glad that's settled," said he. And a moment later he had fallen out of his chair upon the floor. Miner's paralysis! Even the Woolsey boys knew the symptoms. They lifted the old man up and put him on his bed, gave him whiskey, and then consulted as to their next duty. They could not leave him there alone upon the mountain-top; nor was it an easy matter to descend to the bottom of the cañon for help. "You stay here, Charley," said John, "and I'll go for Dr. Mason." "That won't do, Jack. It will be five o'clock before you can cross the cañon, and dark by the time you reach North Bloomfield. Alleghany City is the place to strike for. Get Dr. Lefevre over there. They say he can cure paralysis if any man can." "It's no easy trip to Alleghany, either," said John thoughtfully. "The cañon of Wolf Creek is as bad as the cañon of the Middle Yuba. And there's Kanaka Creek beyond." "Then again, whichever way you go," responded his brother, "you ain't sure of finding the doctor. Better take the old man with us and make for Alleghany, I guess." This seemed the most feasible plan. So they saddled Palmer's sure-footed horse, put his sick master into the saddle, and started down the trail across the cañon of Wolf Creek. It was a long, hard trip. To the Woolsey boys, holding and steadying the old man, the cañon had never seemed so deep. At last they reached the Plumbago Mine, on the opposite height, where they borrowed two mules to carry them the rest of the way. It was easy going now as far as Chipp's Flat. Late in the evening they climbed the steep trail from Kanaka Creek to Alleghany City, took their charge to the hotel, and hunted up Dr. Lefevre. So began a long, hard sickness, the first serious sickness Robert Palmer had suffered since his arrival in the gold fields. For days he lay helpless. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered to take notice of his surroundings, he begged to be moved from the noisy hotel, with its sickening smells, to the cabin of an old friend named Lee, who lived some distance from the main street. There are not more than half a dozen streets in Alleghany City, the principal one being the road along the mountain-side, which, leaving the village, climbs up over an ancient stream of lava, and crossing the summit of the mountain plunges down to Forest City. Dr. Lefevre was the only doctor in the two "cities," and spent much of his time crossing the high ridge that separates the two. He often wished that the miners, in pursuit of gold-bearing gravel, had dug a passage-way through the ridge, as they had done on the opposite side of Kanaka Creek, where there was a tunnel from Chipp's Flat to Minnesota. But on this side of the creek they mined for quartz. However, the miners were good patients, and some day the doctor hoped to return to France with the gold his skill had earned him. With a Frenchman's zeal for science and thoroughness, he was a most excellent physician. By the first of October, Robert Palmer was cured. To the doctor it seemed almost a miracle; and he cautioned the old miner kindly: "Mr. Palmer, one can never tell about this malady. To-day you are well, thanks to your remarkable constitution and a Frenchman's art. Next month, perhaps"--and he shrugged his shoulders. "If you have any business matters to settle, monsieur, any affair of the heart, any will to make, you had better attend to such things while the good Lord gives you strength." Robert Palmer heeded this advice; and so, a few days after, when he had returned to his house on Fillmore Hill, he wrote the following remarkable document: "Fillmore Hill, Oct. 12, 1880. "I, Robert Palmer, the undersigned, of sound mind, declare this to be my last will and testament. After my death it is my will that after all just, honest debts and expenses are paid, if there is any property left that it shall be divided equally between my nieces and nephews: that is, each one shall receive an equal share; and it is also my will that should a majority of my nieces believe money or other property placed in the hands of any of their number would not be used properly the others shall hold such money or property and pay it to the owner at such times and in such amounts as they may think best: and it is also my will that the same plan shall be adopted and carried out with regard to my nephews as I have named above for my nieces, except my nephews shall hold the property. "Now then be it known that I hereby appoint as my administrators or executors, to execute and carry out the above my will, the following named persons, (to wit), John Hintzen of Forest City, Sierra County; John Haggerty of Moore's Flat, Nevada County, and Henry Francis of Moore's Flat, Nevada County: also James B. Francis of Reedsville, Mifflin County, Pennsylvania; to act without bonds, and also to act without the interference of any court of law or any Public Administrator whatever; to act at all times and under all circumstances to the best of their judgment in settling my affairs: if they have patience they may hear any pleas my relations have to offer, but I wish them in the end to stand firm and resolute on their own judgment, and take time to settle the concern whether it need one year or twenty years. "And furthermore it is my will that if the above named persons cannot act conveniently then if two or more act they shall have the same power as if all acted; but if only two act they shall both agree on all the matters, but if more act then the majority may rule. "Robert Palmer." Oct. 12, 1880. Only one who knows the spirit of early California can understand this document. Its beginning is modest: "if there is any property left." What amount was the old man about to distribute? He was too cautious to mention it; and when his friend John Hintzen of Forest City, in whose safe the will was deposited, wrote asking for a list of the property, the old man parried the question. Another curious feature of this document is that the old man chose two executors. He did not care to trust any one friend too far, apparently. Robert Palmer, Democrat, paid his respects to courts and lawyers. His executors were "to act without bonds, and also to act without interference of any court of law or any Public Administrator whatever." He might better have trusted the courts, as we shall see, for his friends failed him. After thirty years the executors all died; and to this day the will of Robert Palmer is an unsolved mystery. CHAPTER XIII The End of the Trail The gold that with the sunlight lies In bursting heaps at dawn, The silver spilling from the skies At night to walk upon, The diamonds gleaming in the dew He never saw, he never knew. He got some gold, dug from the mud, Some silver, crushed from stones, The gold was red with dead men's blood, The silver black with groans; And when he died he moaned aloud, "There'll be no pocket in my shroud." Joaquin Miller. John Keeler, returned from his travels, became Palmer's trusted messenger to Hintzen, to whom the old man sent a copy of his will. Keeler was provided with another copy to deposit at the court-house in Downieville, county seat of Sierra County. For although Robert Palmer disliked courts and lawyers, he deemed it wise to file a copy of his will at the court-house. This he could do without telling Hintzen, so he instructed Keeler, after having seen that gentleman at Forest City, to continue over the mountains to Downieville, as if on private business. Honest John Keeler, after a year spent in tracking criminals, had little liking for this new mission. It seemed as if his old friend thought all men rogues. Such a sweeping condemnation would include himself, and he resented the insinuation. However, the old man was still feeble. So Keeler set out on foot across the mountains. It had been some time since he had been as far as Chipp's Flat. There he sought out the old cannon, long since dismounted, and sitting down upon it he thought of the changes wrought in that neighborhood within his recollection. In Civil War times, eighteen years before, miners of Chipp's Flat and vicinity had enlisted in the Union Army. There had been a full company of a hundred men, and the cannon had been a part of their equipment. But the cannon had not left that California mountain-side; and the soldiers themselves had got no further East than Arizona, for in those days there was no transcontinental railroad. Now that there was one, Chipp's Flat had no need of it. Save for two or three scattered houses the mining town had disappeared. The mountain ridge had been mined through from Minnesota, and now that the gold-bearing gravel had been exhausted, Chipp's Flat, except in name, had gone out of existence. The next thing of interest was the dirty blue water of Kanaka Creek, and the clatter of the stamping mills on the other side of it; for Keeler was not much used to quartz mining. The name "quartz mining" seemed misleading, for the wash from the crushed rock was distinctly blue. It was evident that these quartz mines were paying well, as Alleghany had every appearance of a live mining town. Keeler stopped at the hotel there for dinner. It seemed strange that intelligent men should so lose their heads. Great quantities of liquor were being consumed at the hotel bar, poker games were in full blast, and there was a cemetery handy. Keeler was glad to leave Alleghany to climb over the mountain ridge to Forest City. Now to the eastward the lofty peaks of the Sierras hove into view, dwarfing the mountain ridges of the gold fields. He paused to inspect the ancient stream of lava which crossed his path, and considered once more those convulsions of the earth which had thrown the ancient river beds to the hill-tops, and of which California earthquakes are a constant reminder. Arrived at the summit of the ridge, he looked down upon Forest City, a straggling village in a barren valley denuded of forests. Church, school, and cemetery gave the place an air of permanence; but some day it might disappear, like Chipp's Flat. It lay almost beneath him, so steep was the road down the mountain. Beyond, up the bare valley of a mountain stream, lay the trail to Downieville, nine miles away. His mission to Hintzen performed, he would spend the night at Forest City, and push on to Downieville the next morning. Hintzen kept the general store at Forest City, a business more certain and profitable than gold-mining; and having a reputation for strict honesty, he had become a sort of agent and business manager for the miners. He was one of the few men Robert Palmer trusted; therefore he received the document from Keeler's hand without surprise. But he could not repress a smile at the testator's extreme caution and resolved forthwith to ask for a list of his friend's securities. "How is the old man now?" he asked. "Mr. Palmer has had a close call," replied Keeler. "But he is good for a couple of years yet, I reckon." "Sit down, Keeler, while I write him a note. You'll find a whiskey toddy up there at the end of the counter.--Beg your pardon. Forgot your temperance principles. There's fresh spring water in that bucket." Next morning Keeler pushed on up the ascending valley of the mountain torrent. The horns of a wild sheep by the wayside reminded him of earlier days when game was plentiful. The only wild creatures along the trail to-day were rattlesnakes. With these he was well acquainted. But it did give him a start to find one twined about a branch of a bush. An hour's steady climbing brought him to the top of the watershed between the North and the Middle Yuba. Here a scene of wild grandeur lay before him. Bare crags on either hand guarded the pass over the divide. Immediately in front lay a whole system of deep cañons, clothed with primeval forests, wild and forbidding. Beyond towered a chain of rough, bare mountain peaks. Keeler paused to wonder anew at the vastness of the Sierras. Then he plunged down from the ridge and was soon traversing one of the most lonesome and gloomy trails in all the mountains. The tree trunks were covered with yellowish green moss. In one place stood a pine stump fifty feet high with the upper hundred feet of the tree thrust into the earth beside it. At another place a huge log blocked the trail. Then he crossed a brook and was among chaparral and manzanita bushes. Then he was among the pines again, listening to their voices, for a breeze was blowing up the cañon. Now he came to a spooky region which had been swept by fire, with bare tree trunks, broken and going to decay, standing like ghosts of the forest. Beyond was a clump of young firs with gray stems, so straight and perfect as to be almost uncanny. Or was it the traveler's overwrought imagination? Now the trail turned at right angles along the steep side of a cañon, and he heard the music of the mountain torrent far below. Half a mile further on, where the trail crossed the brook at the head of the cañon, it doubled back on itself along the other side. The traveler refreshed himself at a mossy spring by the side of the trail, then, as he emerged from the cañon at a sudden turn, Downieville appeared. It lay far below him, at the forks of the North Yuba. How musically the roar of the river came up through the autumn stillness! Sign boards pointing to the Ruby Mine, and to the City of Six, prepare the traveler for the discovery of some settlement in the wilderness. But he is hardly prepared for such a beautiful and welcome sight. Here, tucked away among the mountains as tidily as some Eastern village, lies the county seat of Sierra County. But this is California and not Maryland, for yonder comes a mountaineer up the trail with his pack horses. Keeler lost no time in descending and transacting his business at the court-house. But after his lonesome walk over the mountains something he saw here appealed to his imagination. It was a human skull, which had belonged to a murderer. The murdered man was a Frenchman, killed for his money. This was Keeler's first visit to Downieville since the crime, and as he had known the Frenchman he determined to visit his grave. The cemetery is up the river beyond the edge of the town; and here, in more senses than one, a traveler finds the end of the trail. Men and women whose life journey had begun in New England, Old England, Wales, Ireland, France, Denmark, or Russia, had here come to their journey's end. At the cemetery gate, fastened by a wire, was the quaint sign: "NOTICE PLEASE PUT THIS WIRE ON AGIN TO KEEP IT SHUT." A beautiful clear mountain stream flows along one side of the ground and pours into the river below. A lone pine chants requiems over the dead; and yellow poppies with red hearts spring out of the graves. Many of the headstones are boards, naturally; and one poor fellow, whose estate at death was probably a minus quantity, is commemorated by a strip of tin with his name pricked into it. There is a fair proportion of pretentious monuments, which were drawn by ten-horse teams from some distant railroad station. Marked by such a monument was the grave which Keeler sought. The symbolism was striking,--a broken column, an angel holding out an olive branch, and Father Time. And this was the verse of Scripture carved in stone: "Man walketh in a vain shadow: he heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them." Forgetting the murdered Frenchman in the forcefulness of the text, Keeler wondered if Robert Palmer's journey, too, would end like this. CHAPTER XIV Golden Opportunities In California Opportunity knocked at every gate--not once but many times. It returned again and again, most persistently, and intruded alike on men awake and feasting, or asleep and dreaming. John Keeler had hardly spent an hour in Downieville before he had met a Golden Opportunity. On approaching the town he had passed several short tunnels dug into the hillside, and at the court-house he met the owners of one of these tunnels. Smith came from Ohio,--he had for many years been a teacher, and was a member of the Grand Army of the Republic. His partner, whom he introduced as a Confederate veteran, was a Virginian. As partners, the blue and the gray were almost irresistible. Three hundred dollars invested in their shaft would mean a rich strike. But other Opportunities had left Keeler rich in experience and short of cash. He could not use Robert Palmer's money as his own; so he could only smile, rather sadly, and wish his new friends success. How many of his acquaintances had invested good money in a hole in the ground! Even the most prudent, in some unguarded moment, had parted with thousands of dollars, like the dog in the fable which dropped the real bone to seize the shadow. There was Mack, proprietor of the hotel at Graniteville, making lots of money at his business and losing it all in mining ventures. Only the other day Mack had remarked that if his savings had been allowed to accumulate in some good bank he would now be worth some fifty thousand dollars. As it was, he was as poor as his humblest guest. Even Dr. Mason, canny Scot though he was, could not forget the sight of ninety thousand dollars' worth of gold bullion he had once seen piled up at North Bloomfield, and so was persuaded to gamble with his earnings. He had lost as much as Mack. How rosy is the rainbow, and how evanescent the pot of gold at the end of it! California had swallowed up more wealth than its gold could ever repay, as Keeler well knew. It was only occasionally that some lucky devil, or some prudent, saving man like Robert Palmer, after thirty years in the gold fields, had anything to show for it. So Keeler, pondering the deceitfulness of riches, sadly made his way back across the mountains. Even then Fate was weaving her web about his old friend Palmer, who was soon to lie in a pauper's grave. Francis seized a Golden Opportunity. Francis had so far prospered that he had moved to San Francisco. In the city he could watch the stock market, as he told himself privately. To his friends he announced that failing health demanded the change, albeit the exhilarating air of the Sierras was far more beneficial than the dampness of the sea coast. But Francis, inheriting ten thousand dollars from one of his deceased brothers, had moved to San Francisco, taking with him sundry hundreds and thousands of dollars, entrusted to him by his Pennsylvania friends for investment. Everybody had faith in the integrity of Henry Francis. The next summer, when the blue-bells were in blossom at Grass Valley, he passed through that prosperous mining town on the narrow gauge bound for Nevada City and Moore's Flat. This was the summer of 1881, nearly two years after the murder of Cummins. A still, small voice accused him of something akin to highway robbery; and it gave his conscience a twinge to pass the well-known stump which had concealed the robbers. It was bad enough that the robbers were still at large, a fact that reflected upon him. "Bed-bug Brown's" mission had proved a fiasco. But the thing that really worried Francis was his own mission and not the fruitless one of Brown's. If his own proved fruitless his conscience might be better satisfied. But business is business, and the day was fine. Francis was a gentleman and something of a scholar. His face showed refinement, and his hands were as soft as a gambler's. He was fairly well read, and he could have told you, when the stage crossed the South Yuba, that "_Uvas_" is Spanish for "grapes," and that the name "Yuba" is a curious English abbreviation of "Rio Las Uvas." When next day he crossed the foot-bridge over the Middle Yuba, where it tears along in its deep, wild cañon below Moore's Flat, he was less interested in Spanish or in the grandeur of the scenery than he was in reaching Robert Palmer's. He had not hired a horse at Moore's Flat, as the livery man might be curious; so he had sauntered along through the village, greeting old friends and chatting with them now and then until considerable time had been consumed, but he knew that the old man would put him up for the night. It was late in the afternoon before he reached the top of Fillmore Hill. Old man Palmer, much broken in health, as Francis remarked with a degree of inward exultation immediately reproved by his conscience, greeted him affectionately. "Well, Henry, I almost thought you had forgotten me. But, of course, I knew better." "You must remember, Mr. Palmer, that it is quite a ways up here from the city. The narrow gauge from Colfax is little better than a stage coach. It means a trip of fifty miles into the mountains to get here." "Well, I'm mighty glad you've come. As soon as you've rested a bit, I want to talk business." Francis argued with his conscience that the old man had invited him. How could he have refused to answer the summons? Palmer ushered him into the house, where, seated comfortably in the kitchen and welcomed by dog and cat, he partook of the old man's hospitality. Palmer was evidently much wrought up; and, as soon as his guest had rested a little, proceeded to business. "You got my letter?" "Yes, Mr. Palmer." "Hintzen has informed you that I've named you as one of my executors?" "Yes." "And you will be willing to act, I hope?" "Well, Mr. Palmer, I hope that won't be necessary for many years to come." "The Lord only knows how long I have to live. It was rather hard for me here last winter. But I guess the mountain air was good for me. However, I'm going to spend next winter at Sherwood's. The Woolsey boys say they'll take good care of me; and I'm going to deed them my claim." "Better come to San Francisco. I saw a friend of yours down there the other day, a Mrs. Somers, who always inquires about you." "And how is she getting along these days, Francis?" "She appears to be well. Says hard work agrees with her." "Glad to hear good news of her. She writes me occasionally. Remember me to her when you see her." "Then you don't think you'll go below with me?" ("Going below" was local parlance for going to San Francisco.) "No. I'd feel like a fish out of water in that big city. I'll be comfortable at the Sherwood's. I'll have to depend upon you to send me some money occasionally." "Hintzen writes me that he has your will locked up in his safe. I suppose you have given him a list of your property?" "He has written me asking for a list; but I'm not going to give him any." If the old man had not trusted Francis so implicitly he might have noticed an expression of relief light up that gentleman's dark eyes. "So I handle your funds, and Hintzen holds your will," smiled Francis. "Do you think that is fair to either of us?" "Oh, as for the will, I've kept a copy, which you may as well look at." And he fetched the document. Francis read it over very carefully; and then looked up with an expression of undisguised satisfaction. "I'm glad you put it that way," he said. "You leave it to us to act in accordance with our best judgment, whether it takes one year or twenty years. That leaves us free to dispose of securities to the best advantage, and not sacrifice them in a falling market." "Yes, I was thinking of that investment you advised me to make a year ago." Francis winced a little; for the old man probably knew how low a certain stock had fallen. "I see you've named my brother back in Pennsylvania as one of the executors." "Yes; as most of my heirs live in the East, I thought your brother could hunt them up, and let you do business through him." "That is a good idea. But don't you think Hintzen and Haggerty ought to have a list of your property? If you should die, and they found on examining your books and papers that you had trusted me but not them, why, naturally, they would feel hurt." "Well, Haggerty's an Irishman, and Hintzen's a Dutchman. You are an American like myself, and, what's more, a Democrat after my own heart. I want you to hold the funds." "If you feel that way, I wish you wouldn't tell anybody. For if they knew I had money belonging to you people would suspect me of helping myself to it." Francis had been rehearsing this speech for several days; but was now rather surprised that he had the nerve to utter it. But the old man trusted him. Was not Francis almost a son to him? If he had been, he could not have inherited the old man's property more surely. He stayed over night on Fillmore Hill; and when he departed next morning, he took with him bank books and securities and a letter to Palmer's banker which made Francis the custodian of all his money. He even took a small chamois skin bag filled with gold nuggets which the old man had saved. And he left behind at the house on Fillmore Hill not a receipt or a paper of any kind that would indicate that Palmer ever had had any money. They had burned all such tell-tale records; and Henry Francis felt that he was guilty of something baser than highway robbery. Yet, if the stock market should take an upward turn, all might be well. CHAPTER XV Three Graves by the Middle Yuba Gaily bedight A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old-- This knight so bold-- And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow-- "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be-- This land of Eldorado?" "Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied, "If you seek for Eldorado!" Edgar Allan Poe. Robert Palmer's diggings on Fillmore Hill are still plainly seen from the stage road on the other side of the cañon of the Middle Yuba; but he who has the hardihood to cross the cañon will find the mine worked out, the water-ditch dry, and the old man's house pulled down. The basement of the house still affords shelter to adventurers who come to dig for Palmer's hidden treasure. There is no other treasure on that barren hill-top, for the Woolsey boys, to whom the old man deeded his mine, worked out the paying gravel long ago. At the bottom of the cañon, and just across the cold, rushing river, is a clump of rose bushes, which mark the spot where the Woolsey brothers lived with their mother and old Sherwood, their step-father. Beyond the rose bushes, in the edge of a meadow, are three lonely graves, covered by the branches of alders, unmarked save for flat field stones, and unknown except to a few ranchmen who drive their cattle up the river for summer pasturage. The first burial was that of one "Scotty," a ranchman. In 1915 there was living at the Soldiers' Home in the Napa Valley an octogenarian, last surviving member of the Keystone Club, who had helped to dig Scotty's grave. In the middle grave by the Middle Yuba lies the body of Robert Palmer. The third grave is that of Sherwood. No doubt these Californians rest as peacefully as those whose mortal remains have been gathered into the cemetery at Downieville. Mother Earth has received her children back into her bosom, and day and night the river chants their requiem. In September, ten weeks after Henry Francis's visit, Palmer put his house in order, and with Sammy, the cat and his dog Bruce, sought protection at Sherwood's. For Sherwood he had little respect; and he thought Mrs. Sherwood a silly woman to have brought her boys to such a home. But the boys were now grown men, friendly, generous, and strong. The old man had no better neighbors. He insisted, proud and independent to the last, that he should provision the family for the winter. So he drew on Hintzen, who packed in an abundance of good things from Forest City. Every night the old man sat by the stove. He liked to stroke Sammy's sleek coat and listen to the cat's affectionate purring. He liked to tell how his dog Bruce had saved his life. For it seems Palmer had once started off for Forest City by night, was stricken with a paralytic shock, and, falling unconscious in the woods, was finally rescued by neighbors who had heard the dog's insistent barking. When the snow was deep in the cañon, and the supply of provisions was getting low, the old man ordered more from Hintzen. He recalled the severity of New England winters, and talked of the friends of his youth. He began to plan a trip East in the coming summer, directed John Woolsey to inquire as to the expense of such a trip, and proposed to employ him as a traveling companion. And feeling the need of some money, he bade Mrs. Sherwood write a letter for him to Francis, signing it with his mark. For some unaccountable reason Francis made no answer, and the old man seemed much disturbed. Other letters were dispatched. Still no answer. After long waiting a letter in a feminine hand, postmarked "San Francisco," and addressed to "Rob't Palmer, Moore's Flat," found its way through the snow-drifts to Sherwood's ranch. It was from Harriet Somers. But no letter came from Francis. Finally Sherwood suggested a registered letter. In a few days a receipt came back, followed by a letter in which Francis explained that he had just returned from a trip to Honolulu for his health, and that he hoped when he was better to go up into the mountains to see Mr. Palmer. But the old man's strength was failing, and worry over Francis had resulted in another paralytic shock. Dr. Mason was summoned, and made his way into the cañon on skis. He found the patient in bad condition, suffering from miner's paralysis in its worst form. Still, the old man rallied, affixed his mark in lieu of signature to a letter ordering medicines and other necessaries from Hintzen, and forbade the writing of alarming letters to his relatives. He hoped to weather the storm again as he had done under Dr. Lefevre's treatment. But patient and nurses had their premonitions. He would call out in distress, "Mrs. Sherwood, please help my hand," and she, taking the stiffened fingers in hers, would soothe him so. He came more and more to depend upon her. Told her he trusted she would do whatever was needful; and, sure sign of the coming end, spoke of his relatives in the East. Save for the astronomer nephew, he had seen none of them for more than thirty years; but his heart went out in tenderness towards them. He spoke of his brothers and sisters and their promising children. Weeping, he told of his beloved mother, who died when he was a boy of seven years and left him heart-broken. He talked about making legal provision for pet cat and dog, which did not forsake him in his weakness. Mrs. Sherwood, remarking upon such extravagance, asked: "You have considerable means, Mr. Palmer?" And he, grown less secretive under her patient nursing, replied: "Why, yes, I have considerable money." The days went by, and he got no better. But his mind was clear; and he resolved before it was too late to reward his benefactors. So a justice of the peace was summoned, and a deed of the old man's claim on Fillmore Hill was drawn up, making the property over to the Woolsey brothers. Without hesitation he described his boundaries in legal fashion; and he signed the deed with his mark, before witnesses. Furthermore, he told the boys where they would be likely to find rich gravel; and they afterward had cause to praise the old man's judgment. He became as gentle as a woman. Indeed, Mrs. Sherwood, who had hung up some of his family portraits about his bed, remarked that in his sickness he very much resembled the astronomer's mother, his sister. He comforted his friends, and told them his wishes in case he was "caught in a worse snap," as he put it. About this time he was stricken with blindness. Mrs. Sherwood was much affected. She took down her Bible and read to him. And she read the beautiful litanies of the Episcopal prayer-book. With her boys she knelt in prayer by his bedside. The blind eyes moistened; for the strong man's heart and brain still served him well. Only a few days before the end, when the whole body was apparently paralyzed, Dr. Mason inquired if there was any business which he wished attended to, and Robert Palmer replied: "My affairs are settled; and, Doctor, you will be paid for your services." The last day of April had arrived; but the snow banks were still deep in the cañon. Nothing further had been heard from Henry Francis, but the old man at last seemed reconciled. Perhaps Francis was not well enough to come through the snow. It was Sunday, and at midnight came the fatal stroke. He did not regain consciousness, and died peacefully on Tuesday afternoon, May 2, 1882. Then strange things happened. Hintzen, a large, heavy man, unused to exercise, appeared on snow-shoes at Sherwood's house and asked if Mr. Palmer had said anything about his property. No! And though the dead man lay within, he turned away and immediately put back to Forest City. Henry Francis was notified. But Henry Francis did not make his appearance. And the snow drifts being deep, Robert Palmer was buried by the side of Scotty, like a pauper. No, not like a pauper; for there was still twenty-nine dollars standing to his credit at Hintzen's. And this sum defrayed his funeral expenses. Out of rough planks, lying about to mend sluices, the Woolsey boys framed a coffin, for which they procured handles at a neighboring village. And Mrs. Sherwood, faithful nurse and spiritual adviser, laid the old man out in his best clothes. The rugged face showed no look of annoyance. After thirty-three years of honest striving the old Forty-niner slept the sleep of the just. The doctor's bill remained unpaid, a circumstance which would have annoyed Robert Palmer exceedingly, were he further concerned with the affairs of this world. It would appear that Henry Francis deemed it good policy to assume no obligations. So for thirty-three years that honest debt remained unpaid; while in the meantime Francis, Hintzen and Haggerty became wealthy, lost their money, and passed on to their reward. The doctor, long since removed from North Bloomfield, thieves, and murderers, was finally paid by Palmers of a later generation. CHAPTER XVI When Thieves Fall Out When news of Robert Palmer's death reached his relatives, pity for his lonesome life of self-denial was swallowed up by pleasant anticipations. But weeks and months passed by with no word of encouragement from his executors. Finally, Mrs. Sherwood, thinking the heirs were being defrauded, wrote East urging that some member of the Palmer family visit California. So the astronomer nephew, at considerable expense to himself, was delegated to cross the continent. At the end of August he found himself in the Sierras once more. On horseback he visited Sherwood's ranch, and his uncle's house on Fillmore Hill, ran the gauntlet of rogues at Alleghany, and passed on over the mountains to Forest City and Downieville. It was a glorious outing, in spite of the dust. How brightly the stars shone down on the Sierras! But the further he investigated the deeper grew the mystery. Dr. Mason told the story of the sixty thousand dollars loaned by Robert Palmer to the water company. But the three California executors, reputed honest men, assured the nephew there was no money to be found. Bankers in Sacramento and San Francisco were polite but disappointing. All the astronomer brought home was Mat Bailey's story of the murder of Cummins, a copy of Robert Palmer's will procured at Downieville, and a problem which defied his higher mathematics. "Set a thief to catch a thief;" the astronomer was an honest man. A few months after his return from California, the tangled web of my yarn began to unravel. Mat Bailey had reported that nothing had been heard of the highwaymen "from that day to this." But John Keeler's work had not been done in vain. O'Leary of You Bet, the Nevada City jail-bird, had been duly impressed with the handsome reward offered for the apprehension of the murderers. So every time he met an old acquaintance he talked about the murder of Will Cummins. It was a simple method of procedure, and it did not prove immediately successful. As it was about as easy to be a vagabond in one locality as in another, he drifted from place to place--first to Sacramento, then to San Francisco, then over the Sierras to the mining camps of Nevada, then through Utah and Wyoming, till at last he found himself in jail in St. Louis. There, three years after the murder, he found his old pal J. C. P. Collins--but how changed! Could that coarse and bloated countenance belong to the fastidious and pleasure-loving Collins? "Well, Collins, I hardly knew you. How does the grub here compare with what we used to get at Carter's boarding-house?" O'Leary referred to the jail at Nevada City. "This must be your first week in St. Louis," replied Collins, "if you haven't put up at this hotel before. Been caught stealing again, I suppose?" "That's me. Only the matter of a lady's purse that was of no use to her." "Well, women are the cause of all my trouble. They drag a man down worse than drink. They are a bad lot, are women." "Why, you're a regular preacher, ain't you? You used to be a ladies' man." "That was in California." "How's the wild and woolly?" asked Collins, presently, looking his old pal over contemptuously. "Oh, I know I ain't stylish like you Eastern dudes. I'm a honest miner, I am. And I don't wear boiled shirts like you." "You're honest, all right. We'll leave that to Sheriff Carter. Remember how he caught you stealing that Chinaman's dust? I can see that Chinaman's sign now: 'Heekee & Co., Gold Dust Bought.' By the way, what's become of my old flame back there?" "Oh, a lady? I don't remember no ladies that was acquainted with gents like us." "I don't reckon you know the girl I mean. She wasn't in your class, that's a fact." "Maybe I can tell you if you'll just say her name." "Well, I'm inquiring after Miss Mamie Slocum, the sweetest little girl in Nevada City." "You're joking, sure. That girl never had any use for the likes of you. Mat Bailey would knock your head off if he heard you breathe her name." "Insult me as much as you like. 'No fighting' is the rules of this hotel. I asked you, how is that little girl? Sweet on Mat Bailey, is she? Well, I'm glad of it." "Yes; she and Mat have been good friends ever since Will Cummins was killed." "So? How's that?" "Why, you know she came down on the stage that day, and saw it all. Some say she knew the robbers and helped them find Cummins' bullion. I guess Mat was in the deal, too. Anyhow, she and Mat have been good friends ever since, as I tell you." "Now look here, O'Leary, you're dead wrong. That girl is as innocent as you are." "Sure! The judge just sent me up for snatching a purse, you know." "I tell you that girl knew nothing about the hold-up." "It must have happened after you left California, or you wouldn't be so sure. I'll tell you about it. Stage comes down from Moore's Flat. Mamie Slocum talks and laughs with Will Cummins. Sees where he stows his old leather grip. Sings out to the robbers, 'That's Mr. Cummins' valise under the seat there.'" "That's a lie, and you are a fool to believe it!" "I'm telling you the facts." "The facts! Why, man, wasn't I there? And don't I know just what happened?" Astonished at this outburst, O'Leary looked hard at Collins. There was no mistaking his earnestness; and he only leered at the other's astonishment. O'Leary was discreet enough to say no more; and Collins seemed to think his secret safe enough in the keeping of an old pal two thousand miles from the scene of the murder. But that very night O'Leary telegraphed to Sheriff Carter of Nevada City: "Man who killed Cummins in jail here. Come at once. Pat O'Leary." John Keeler and Henry Francis happened to be at the railroad station the next morning, when Carter started for St. Louis; and he showed them the telegram. "When thieves fall out," remarked Keeler; and Francis winced. Was it because he foresaw that the ten thousand dollar reward would be claimed? or was it for some other reason? Keeler wondered. CHAPTER XVII Brought To Justice There was no serious doubt in Sheriff Carter's mind as to the importance of O'Leary's telegram. He hoped that the murder of Will Cummins was, at last, to be avenged; and, as he had admired and loved that chivalrous man, he resolved to use every means in his power to bring the murderers to justice. But he realized what a difficult task it would be to get them hanged. There was a strong sentiment in California against capital punishment. There seemed to be little objection to murder committed by private citizens, but people raised their hands in horror at what they were pleased to call judicial murder. What right has the State to take so precious a thing as human life, even though the life be that of a hardened criminal? Carter was sick at heart. He had watched the most depraved characters, fed and clothed and guarded at the public expense, spend their days in shame and utter uselessness. It would have been a mercy to have terminated their existence; and it would have instilled respect for law in the minds of other criminals. But the immediate problem of Sheriff Carter, as it is the immediate concern of this story, was to capture the murderers. Carter went armed with proper legal documents, handcuffs, and a pair of derringers--for the sheriff of Nevada County could shoot straight simultaneously with both hands. Two faithful deputies accompanied their chief, and all three were well supplied with the sinews of war in gold and bank-notes. Arrived at St. Louis Carter immediately got in touch with O'Leary, and cautioned him not to alarm Collins, for proper circumspection might lead to the capture of both murderers. Showing his credentials to the proper authorities, he took them into his confidence, and thus made sure that Collins would not be discharged from jail without his knowledge. Then he and his deputies retired to their hotel for rest, refreshment, and poker. In less than three days the chief of police showed him a letter written by Collins to Thorn. The missive ran: "dear Thorn, alias Darcy, don't let your old pal bother you eny I suppose you are having a revival in your church about this time and converting a great many sinners. give my kind regards to the widow Brown, and I hope she will marry you soon. I expect to leave this hotel in ten days, so will need $50. send post office order, St. Louis, general delivery. Your old partner, J. C. P. Collins." It was evidently a blackmailing letter. The sheriff remembered Darcy of old, and the chances seemed good that Thorn _alias_ Darcy was the other highwayman. So, taking O'Leary along to assist in the identification, he set out for Union City to deliver Collins' letter in person. No doubt this Thorn was a harder man to catch than Collins. He had had sense enough to change his name and to join a church. So Carter approached Union City rather cautiously, leaving O'Leary with one of his deputies in Chicago with orders to wait for a telegram. Accompanied by the other deputy he arrived at Union City rather late at night, to avoid publicity. There he learned that Thorn had been in town nearly three years. That he was engaged in the lumber business, was prosperous, highly respected and was prominent in the leading church of the town. He was away on business in Chicago at the time, but was expected to return in a week or two, as it was rumored that he was soon to marry. The sheriff's disappointment was much relieved by the receipt of a telegram the next morning: "We have got Darcy corralled here. Come at once. Pat O'Leary." "Just as well that we brought O'Leary along," remarked Carter to his deputy. "You stay on guard here till you hear from me." In Chicago the sheriff found that his deputy had promptly arrested Darcy on O'Leary's identification, and had had the man locked up. But on visiting the jail, Carter was considerably in doubt if he had ever seen the prisoner before. The Darcy he remembered was smooth shaven, bronzed through exposure to the California sun, rough and rather desperate in appearance. This man wore a beard, was well dressed, rather pale from confinement in his office, and of sanctimonious countenance. "But that's Darcy, all right," O'Leary assured him. "Same eyes, and same mole on his neck. Just read him that letter from Collins, Mr. Carter." At the name of Collins the prisoner winced visibly. For some time he had realized that Collins might betray him; and he had thought seriously of ending that scoundrel's career. Carter followed up the advantage quickly. "I think this is Mr. Thorn of Union City?" he inquired politely. "That's my name," said the man, "and I live in Union City, as I told the officer." "I've just come from Union City," replied Carter quietly, "and happen to know that you are a respected citizen of that place. Don't suppose you ever heard of J. C. P. Collins of Nevada County, California?" "I was a miner in California several years, but I don't remember anybody by the name of Collins." "It's singular then that Collins should call you his old pal and address you as 'Dear Thorn alias Darcy.'" And Carter presented Collins' letter. "You're wanted, Thorn, alias Darcy, for the murder of William F. Cummins." The sheriff looked at the prisoner so sternly that the man wilted. "Collins has owned up, and you might as well do the same." "O God!" groaned the man, "my sin has found me out. I killed Cummins with my own hand; and I am ready to pay the penalty." His religion had not been all humbug, by any means; and now he asked permission to visit Union City to make public confession of the murder. But Carter had left Collins in jail at St. Louis, and saw no reason to delay the arrest of that scoundrel in order to gratify the wishes of a confessed murderer. So he proceeded to St. Louis at once, arrested Collins, who seemed rather shocked and grieved to meet his old friend the sheriff once more; and hurried the prisoners back to California. There was great excitement in the gold fields, you may be sure, when it was announced that Will Cummins' murderers were safely lodged in jail, more than three years after the crime. Surely, California was becoming civilized, and at last Nevada County was actually to try a couple of men for murder. CHAPTER XVIII The End of J. C. P. Collins At Nevada City, with its pleasant homes scattered on the hills either side of the deep gorge of Deer Creek, the traveler lingers awhile to drink in the romance of the gold fields. Roses and poppies that bloom profusely in the front yards are "emblems of deeds that are done in their clime." The very soil, like the flowers that spring therefrom, suggests gold and the red blood so freely shed for it. Here and there are eloquent, though silent, reminders of the exciting days of placer mining and highway robbery, when Wells Fargo and Company brought treasure out of the mountains guarded by armed men. At the court-house Nevada County is advertised as the banner gold county of California, with a total output of $300,000,000; a yellow block on exhibition represents the bullion taken from the Malakoff Mine in one month, and valued at $114,289. In a showcase at the Citizens' Bank are exhibited four of the buckshot which killed T. H. Girard on October 31, 1887. Also, a bit of hemp rope with a tag, on which is written: "The end of J. C. P. Collins Feb. 1, 1884 Compliments of Sheriff Carter." In vain one may search for a similar reminder of the highwayman Darcy, the actual murderer of Will Cummins. But at the scene of the murder, the stage-driver of the present generation tells his passengers that Darcy was paroled several years ago, after spending thirty years in prison. He may add that Darcy, the ex-convict, is an inert and lifeless creature, married to a paroled woman as lifeless as himself. Darcy's friends in Union City would not have it appear that their model citizen was a murderer. They protested stoutly, and in the end the tax-payers for thirty years were burdened with the care and keep of the criminal. As it has already been remarked, murders in Nevada County were common enough; but a murder trial was almost unheard of. The State tried Collins first. He had no friends, except of the baser sort; and his conviction might make it easier to convict Darcy. Mat Bailey and Mamie Slocum were important witnesses for the State; and Collins himself, poor debauchee though he was, was man enough to clear Mamie of all suspicion. She freely told of her conversation with him when he had recommended the gallantry of gentlemen of the road. And she admitted that she had always been haunted by the suspicion that the highwayman with whom Cummins had grappled might have been Collins, who had so strangely disappeared after the robbery. No; she could not identify him as the man who asked about Cummins' valise. She was not sure about his voice. She was too much frightened to be sure of anything. As Collins seemed less interested in saving his own worthless life than in establishing the innocence of Mamie Slocum, he was promptly convicted. The judge sentenced him to be hanged on Friday, Feb. 1, 1884. Sheriff Carter could not see why, if Collins was guilty, Darcy was not. But good souls from Union City showed how exemplary had been the life of their brother since he came among them, and the lawyer whom these good people employed pointed out the shame and disgrace that would be suffered by a worthy family if one bearing the name of Darcy should die upon the scaffold. It is strange that in such cases the lawyers on the other side do not show that the shame and disgrace come with the commission of the crime, and that honest punishment endured for the same is the one means left the criminal to atone for the injury he has done the good name of his family. There was no doubt as to Darcy's guilt; and he was man enough to have paid the extreme penalty willingly. For thirty years he lived the monotonous round of prison life, becoming more and more like a dumb animal, and paroled at last in his old age little better than an automaton--the qualities of daring, thrift, and religious enthusiasm long since dead and gone. Throughout the trial of both men, Henry Francis was an interested spectator. The court-room seemed to have a fascination for him, although he was now a rich man with important demands upon his time. It was whispered about that the Pennsylvanians had spent a hundred thousand dollars hunting the criminals down; and some people were fanciful enough to see in Henry Francis the highwaymen's Nemesis. He made a very dignified Nemesis indeed. He looked grave and thoughtful, and his newly acquired wealth lent dignity to his refined countenance. But it occurred to John Keeler that somehow it appeared as if Francis imagined himself sitting at his own trial. He seemed to show an almost eager interest in the subterfuges and the raising of legal dust by means of which counsel for the defense endeavored to blind the eyes of the jurors. Keeler hardly dared to let his fancy run on to logical conclusions. It seemed too much like condemning a man without giving him a trial. Yet he could not help being haunted by the thought that some thieves are too shrewd to assume the risks of highway robbery. In his own mind this thought constituted the one valid argument against capital punishment. For if common scoundrels are to be executed what severer punishment is left for the more crafty villain? But he could see that a sensitive nature like that of Francis was capable of infinite suffering; and he thought of the words of Scripture, "Verily they have their reward." CHAPTER XIX The Home-Coming of Another Dead Man "The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small." For example, there was Robert Palmer, who after thirty years spent in the gold fields had accumulated considerable treasure. But choosing to dig for gold and to live among adventurers, thieves, and speculators, he had come to distrust human nature. He became so secretive that even at the approach of death, when the kindly French doctor had given him fair warning, he would confide in only one man. Verily, he had his reward. Incidentally, the three Californians whom he had named as his executors prospered. They may not all be included among the forty-one thieves of this story, but it may not seem unreasonable to suppose that Henry Francis made it worth while for Hintzen and Haggerty to keep quiet. The point is that all three executors prospered--and then died penniless. Hintzen made so much money over at Forest City that he left for Arizona, where he invested in copper, and lost everything he had. Haggerty, who remained in his store at Moore's Flat, where he had made money rapidly, speculated and lost all, including the savings of a few poor people who had trusted him. Henry Francis speculated in the stock of the famous Comstock mine, in the adjoining State of Nevada, lost the fortune he had wrongfully acquired, and died broken-hearted. It was only six years after Palmer's death that he collapsed, and was taken home to Reedsville, Pennsylvania. Here, ostensibly the victim of tuberculosis, he lingered a year to taste the bitterness of poverty and wretchedness. Then he died, and suffered the usual eulogy poured out by country ministers. A charitable author must admit the virtues of his "heavy-villain." The sun rises upon the evil and the good, and rain descends upon the just and the unjust, for the simple reason, no doubt, that no other arrangement would be possible, inasmuch as there are no people who are entirely good and none who are wholly bad. In every man the forces of good and evil are at war. If Henry Francis yielded to temptation there were extenuating circumstances. In the first place, Robert Palmer's will distinctly stated that everything was left to the judgment of the executors. They were to stand firm and resolute on their own judgment "and take time to settle the concern whether it need one year or twenty years." Possibly Francis reasoned that investing the old man's money in a certain way would, within a very few years, double the estate, and thus render a service to the heirs. And if at the end of three or four years the event had proved the soundness of his judgment, was it wrong to exercise that judgment in further ventures? The will gave him twenty years. Weren't the executors acting "at all times and under all circumstances to the best of their judgment?" If conscience demurred that Hintzen and Haggerty were left in the dark, so that "their judgment" had come to mean simply the judgment of Henry Francis, had he not proved that judgment good? He knew that when he had given the heirs to understand that there was no property, he had prevaricated. But had he not heard their pleas with patience, just as the old man had directed? And if Robert Palmer's estate were settled right then, at the end of four years, would the heirs complain of circumstances which had doubled their inheritance? No doubt conscience inquired if Francis was thinking of postponing settlement indefinitely. And no doubt prudence suggested a settlement now when all was going well. But once let the estate slip from his control, and he would become a comparatively poor man; while the twenty-nine heirs might squander their money foolishly. While he was debating the question, it was only proper to keep the money well invested. And if at the end of the fifth year his securities had shrunken seriously in value, it was natural to wait another year for values to become normal. When the crash came, the injury to his vanity hurt him more than his wounded conscience; that he had learned to soothe, but his pride had never before been humbled. And so it was said that Henry Francis died of a broken heart. His sister Mary, who nine years before had brought back to Pennsylvania the corpse of the murdered Cummins, was now summoned to carry another dead man home. True, he lived a year to contemplate the ruin of fortune and honor, but he was mortally wounded. Most pathetic of all, he was resolved to suffer in silence. Brothers and sisters should not share in his disgrace. He had gambled and lost. But he would not tell them that he had gambled with his honor. There is still balm in Gilead, even for a sinner! It was good to feel the touch of his sister's hand, to taste the delicacies that only she could prepare. The last long journey over the plains, at the end of which he would find rest on the hillside where Will Cummins slept, was almost as peaceful as his. He had renounced the world of thieves and gamblers, and was going home. Arrived in his native valley, he marvelled at its beauty. Why had he ever left it, to risk life and honor in the pursuit of riches? Man's needs are so simple! How easily he might have thriven among such kindly neighbors! None of them could be called rich, but they had an abundance of this world's goods, with something to spare for him, the returned prodigal. What does it profit a man to gain the wealth of California and lose his own soul? Had he lost his soul, then? He had proved unfaithful to his friend. Or had he been simply unfortunate? Ah, well! he hardly knew. He was eager to see Robert Palmer again in the world to which he was hastening. Then he would confess all, and be forgiven. For Robert Palmer had loved him like a son. Yes, that was what made the cup so bitter! CHAPTER XX The Bridal Veil "Where ancient forests widely spread, Where bends the cataract's ocean fall, On the lone mountain's silent head, There are Thy temples, Lord of All!" Andrews Norton. As the trial and execution of J. C. P. Collins were the last acts in his worthless career, so they were the last but one in the courtship of Mat Bailey and Mamie Slocum. These comparatively young people were married soon afterward. They were married and did not live happily ever after; but they certainly enjoyed greater happiness than that which fell to the lot of their friends, John Keeler and Dr. Mason only excepted. During a long life John Keeler reaped the reward of sterling integrity. To the end of his days he remained a poor man. But no one in all Nevada County was more highly respected. Not that he was much interested in what other people thought of him, as he strove simply to win the respect of his own exacting conscience. Dr. Mason, having at last had the satisfaction of seeing one murderer brought to justice, felt that he might with dignity retire from the gold fields, where good Anglo-Saxon ideas of law and order were beginning to find acceptance. So he moved his family into the plains at the foot of the Sierras, where in the town of Lincoln, Placer County, they enjoyed a more genial and happy existence. Mr. and Mrs. Mat Bailey also moved away from Nevada County. But Mat had become so strongly addicted to stage-driving that he could not give it up even to enjoy the continuous society of his bride. He might, for instance, have become a florist, and employed Mamie as his chief assistant. Instead of this he took her to what he considered the most beautiful place on earth. He established his home in the meadows of the Yosemite Valley, where the clear waters of the Merced preserve the verdure of the fields the whole summer through. In midsummer, the floor of the Yosemite Valley is like an oasis in the desert. On all sides are rough, dry mountains; and if you follow the river down to the San Joaquin Valley it becomes lost in a vast parched plain. But between its mountain walls, where Mamie lived and where Mat pursued his vocation, all is beautiful. From the mountain height across the river thundered the Yosemite Fall in all its glory, a sight that allures travelers from the uttermost parts of the earth. And down the valley a ways was the Bridal Veil, where Mat and Mamie paused to worship when first they entered that enchanted valley together. Their first drive after they went to house-keeping was to Artist Point. Mamie felt that she never had loved Mat before as she did that day; for as he exulted in the glories of the valley, with Half Dome at the end and El Capitan standing in sublime magnificence before them, the scales fell from her eyes, and she saw in her stage-driver husband the poet and artist that he really was. He was artist enough not to attempt to show his sweetheart all the glories of the Yosemite at once. He took the keenest delight in having them grow upon her. It was fully two months before they climbed up out of the valley to Inspiration Point, renewing their acquaintance with familiar scenes and experiencing more stupendous grandeur. It was two years after they came into the valley that Mat disclosed the most tremendous magnificence of all. For years after it fairly took her breath away to think of it. First they took the familiar road to Inspiration Point, then made their way over the mountains where the Glacier Point Road now runs, and camped for the night in the highlands of never-failing frost. Next morning they pursued their way through the woods an interminable distance, as it seemed to Mamie, until finally they stood upon the brink of a huge cañon, with a snowy mountain range in the distance beyond, and in the intervening space, a vast panorama of granite mountain sides, almost white,--here and there covered with a sparse growth of timber. The waters from these mountain reaches had cut a channel for themselves known as Little Yosemite Valley, where pour the two wonderful cataracts known as Nevada Falls and Vernal Falls. Their deep roar came up from the valley. Mamie felt that she would be content to watch that scene the whole day through. But Mat took her on to Glacier Point, where you look straight down more than three thousand feet to the level floor of the Yosemite Valley. There below, more than half a mile below, she saw her neighbors' cottages; and the thought occurred to her, as she clung to Mat, that if she should fall over the precipice she might crash through the roof of one of these. She actually saw the good neighbor who was caring for her own child during his mother's absence. Before the day of aviators it seemed strange enough to look straight down from half a mile up in the sky. Then came those scenes of terrifying magnificence when she followed Mat over the trail cut along the perpendicular walls of the cañon five miles down to the floor of the Valley. One who has not passed over that trail can scarcely conceive of it; and one who has, brings away a sense of the sublime and the beautiful mingled with terror. There against the blue sky stands the perpendicular wall of Half Dome, almost within arm's reach, seemingly, in that clear atmosphere. There stand El Capitan and the Three Graces. And there at every turn of the trail pours the glorious Yosemite Fall, at first too far away for the ear to notice its distant thunder. Then on closer approach the faint roar is heard across the cañon. The attention becomes fixed more and more upon this majestic cataract, to set off which the wonderful mountain walls seem to have been specially created. The trail from Glacier Point, beginning at an altitude above the top of the fall opposite, reveals it in its whole nakedness--shows its rise in the vast watershed of upland mountain valleys, and then by degrees leads you closer and closer to it until, at Union Point, its glory is perfect. But why attempt to outline the wonders of that famous valley? If Mr. and Mrs. Mat Bailey were not actually happy ever after, they found life worth living. As only people of humble fortune are likely to do, they lived the simple life. And they found it pleasant. They realized, as many people of humble fortune do not, that the sweetest pleasure can be derived from the cheerful performance of obvious and commonplace duties. Mat had always taken pride in his unpretentious calling, and his wife learned to love the blessed busy life of wife and mother. Her sons and daughters, knowing no better because of their peculiar environment, grew up believing this old earth most beautiful, and the nobility of their world seemed to create in them nobility of character. The sheltered peace of that green valley entered into their souls. THE END 
22155	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 22155-h.htm or 22155-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/1/5/22155/22155-h/22155-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/1/5/22155/22155-h.zip) Allan Pinkerton's Detective Stories. [Illustration: THE ROBBER.] THE EXPRESSMAN AND THE DETECTIVE. by ALLAN PINKERTON. Fifteenth Thousand. Chicago: W. B. Keen, Cooke & Co., 113 and 115 State Street. 1875. Copyright, W. B. Keen, Cooke & Co., A. D. 1874. The Lakeside Press. PREFACE. During the greater portion of a very busy life, I have been actively engaged in the profession of a Detective, and hence have been brought in contact with many men, and have been an interested participant in many exciting occurrences. The narration of some of the most interesting of these events, happening in connection with my professional labors, is the realization of a pleasure I have long anticipated, and is the fulfillment of promises repeatedly made to numerous friends in by gone days. "THE EXPRESSMAN AND THE DETECTIVE," and the other works announced by my publishers, are all _true stories_, transcribed from the Records in my offices. If there be any incidental embellishment, it is so slight that the actors in these scenes from the drama of life would never themselves detect it; and if the incidents seem to the reader at all marvelous or improbable, I can but remind him, in the words of the old adage, that "Truth is stranger than fiction." ALLAN PINKERTON. CHICAGO, October, 1874. PUBLISHERS' NOTICE. The present Volume is the first of a series of Mr. Allan Pinkerton's thrilling and beautifully written DETECTIVE STORIES, all true to life--founded upon incidents in the experience of the great chief of all detectives. At intervals the following will appear: "CLAUDE MELNOTTE AS A DETECTIVE." "THE TWO SISTERS AND THE AVENGER." "THE FRENCHMAN AND THE BILLS OF EXCHANGE." "THE MURDERER AND THE FORTUNE TELLER." "THE MODEL TOWN AND ITS DETECTIVE." That these Volumes will meet with a cordial reception we have no doubt. W. B. KEEN, COOKE & CO. ILLUSTRATIONS. I. Frontispiece--THE ROBBER. II. At this inopportune moment Simon gave way to his oars, and left the poor deputy hanging in the air. pp. 40 III. "Yah! yah! yah!" roared both the darkies; "you don't know Mother Binks! Why, she keeps the finest gals on all the riber." page 69 IV. As he gaily entered the gallery, twirling his handsome cane, he was welcomed by a pleasant smile from a young lady, an octoroon. page 73 V. Cox and his friends joined in having a good time at the tinker's expense, and pronounced him "the prince of good fellows." page 86 VI. Franklin gave his orders, and the delicious bivalves were soon smoking before them. * * * He kept the alderman in such roars of laughter that he could scarcely swallow his oysters. page 125 VII. "You are my prisoner!" said he. "Nathan Maroney, I demand that you immediately deliver to me fifty thousand dollars, the property of the Adams' Express Co." page 131 VIII. On and on he plunged through the darkness, following the sound of the hoofs and wheels. At times he felt that he must give up and drop by the way; but he forced the feeling back and plunged on with the determination of winning. page 145 IX. "Wal, stranger, whar yar bound?" was his first salutation. Roch looked at him in a bewildered way and then said, "Nichts verstehe!" page 158 X. Mrs. Maroney looked him full in the face with flashing eyes, clenched her little hand, and in a voice hoarse from passion, exclaimed: "What do you want here, you scoundrel?" page 190 XI. In a second, Mrs. Maroney grasped a pitcher and smashed it over Josh.'s skull. page 222 XII. Raising the dead animal by its caudal appendage, he angrily exclaimed, "That's my dog!" page 226 XIII. As he stood outside of the counter, I was enabled to call off all the packages on the way-bill, but dropped the four containing the forty thousand dollars under the counter. page 237 XIV. The peddler lifted his satchel into the buggy; the Madam hurriedly emptied it of its contents, and holding it open jammed the bundle of money into it, and handed it back to the peddler. page 268 THE EXPRESSMAN AND THE DETECTIVE. _CHAPTER I._ Montgomery, Alabama, is beautifully situated on the Alabama river, near the centre of the State. Its situation at the head of navigation, on the Alabama river, its connection by rail with important points, and the rich agricultural country with which it is surrounded, make it a great commercial centre, and the second city in the State as regards wealth and population. It is the capital, and consequently learned men and great politicians flock to it, giving it a society of the highest rank, and making it the social centre of the State. From 1858 to 1860, the time of which I treat in the present work, the South was in a most prosperous condition. "Cotton was king," and millions of dollars were poured into the country for its purchase, and a fair share of this money found its way to Montgomery. When the Alabama planters had gathered their crops of cotton, tobacco, rice, etc., they sent them to Montgomery to be sold, and placed the proceeds on deposit in its banks. During their busy season, while overseeing the labor of their slaves, they were almost entirely debarred from the society of any but their own families; but when the crops were gathered they went with their families to Montgomery, where they gave themselves up to enjoyment, spending their money in a most lavish manner. There were several good hotels in the city and they were always filled to overflowing with the wealth and beauty of the South. The Adams Express Company had a monopoly of the express business of the South, and had established its agencies at all points with which there was communication by rail, steam or stage. They handled all the money sent to the South for the purchase of produce, or remitted to the North in payment of merchandise. Moreover, as they did all the express business for the banks, besides moving an immense amount of freight, it is evident that their business was enormous. At all points of importance, where there were diverging routes of communication, the company had established principal agencies, at which all through freight and the money pouches were delivered by the messengers. The agents at these points were selected with the greatest care, and were always considered men above reproach. Montgomery being a great centre of trade was made the western terminus of one of the express routes, Atlanta being the eastern. The messengers who had charge of the express matter between these two points were each provided with a safe and with a pouch. The latter was to contain only such packages as were to go over the whole route, consisting of money or other valuables. The messenger was not furnished with a key to the pouch, but it was handed to him locked by the agent at one end of the route to be delivered in the same condition to the agent at the other end. The safe was intended for way packages, and of it the messenger of course had a key. The pouch was carried in the safe, each being protected by a lock of peculiar construction. The Montgomery office in 1858, and for some years previous, had been in charge of Nathan Maroney, and he had made himself one of the most popular agents in the company's employ. He was married, and with his wife and one daughter, had pleasant quarters at the Exchange Hotel, one of the best houses in the city. He possessed all the qualifications which make a popular man. He had a genial, hearty manner, which endeared him to the open, hospitable inhabitants of Montgomery, so that he was "hail fellow, well met," with most of its populace. He possessed great executive ability and hence managed the affairs of his office in a very satisfactory manner. The promptness with which he discharged his duties had won for him the well-merited esteem of the officers of the company, and he was in a fair way of attaining a still higher position. His greatest weakness--if it may be so called--was a love for fast horses, which often threw him into the company of betting men. On the morning of the twenty-sixth of April, 1858, the messenger from Atlanta arrived in Montgomery, placed his safe in the office as usual, and when Maroney came in, turned over to him the through pouch. Maroney unlocked the pouch and compared it with the way-bill, when he discovered a package of four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars for a party in Montgomery which was not down on the way-bill. About a week after this occurrence, advice was received that a package containing ten thousand dollars in bills of the Planters' and Mechanics' Bank of Charleston, S. C., had been sent to Columbus, Ga., via the Adams Express, but the person to whom it was directed had not received it. Inquiries were at once instituted, when it was discovered that it had been missent, and forwarded to Atlanta, instead of Macon. At Atlanta it was recollected that this package, together with one for Montgomery, for four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, had been received on Sunday, the twenty-fifth of April, and had been sent on to Montgomery, whence the Columbus package could be forwarded the next day. Here all trace of the missing package was lost. Maroney stated positively that he had not received it, and the messenger was equally positive that the pouch had been delivered to Maroney in the same order in which he received it from the Atlanta agent. The officers of the company were completely at a loss. It was discovered beyond a doubt that the package had been sent from Atlanta. The messenger who received it bore an excellent character, and the company could not believe him guilty of the theft. The lock of the pouch was examined and found in perfect order, so that it evidently had not been tampered with. The messenger was positive that he had not left the safe open when he went out of the car, and there was no sign of the lock's having been forced. The more the case was investigated, the more directly did suspicion point to Maroney, but as his integrity had always been unquestioned, no one now was willing to admit the possibility of his guilt. However, as no decided action in the matter could be taken, it was determined to say nothing, but to have the movements of Maroney and other suspected parties closely watched. For this purpose various detectives were employed; one a local detective of Montgomery, named McGibony; others from New Orleans, Philadelphia, Mobile, and New York. After a long investigation these parties had to give up the case as hopeless, all concluding that Maroney was an innocent man. Among the detectives, however was one from New York, Robert Boyer, by name, an old and favorite officer of Mr. Matsell when he was chief of the New York police. He had made a long and tedious examination and finding nothing definite as to what had become of the money, had turned his attention to discovering the antecedents of Maroney, but found nothing positively suspicious in his life previous to his entering the employ of the company. He discovered that Maroney was the son of a physician, and that he was born in the town of Rome, Ga. Here I would remark that the number of titled men one meets in the South is astonishing. Every man, if he is not a doctor, a lawyer, or a clergyman, has some military title--nothing lower than captain being admissible. Of these self-imposed titles they are very jealous, and woe be to the man who neglects to address them in the proper form. Captain is the general title, and is applied indiscriminately to the captain of a steamer, or to the deck hand on his vessel. Maroney remained in Rome until he became a young man, when he emigrated to Texas. On the breaking out of the Mexican war he joined a company of Texan Rangers, and distinguished himself in a number of battles. At the close of the war he settled in Montgomery, in the year 1851, or 1852, and was employed by Hampton & Co., owners of a line of stages, to act as their agent. On leaving this position, he was made treasurer of Johnson & May's circus, remaining with the company until it was disbanded in consequence of the pecuniary difficulties of the proprietors--caused, it was alleged, through Maroney's embezzlement of the funds, though this allegation proved false, and he remained for many years on terms of intimacy with one of the partners, a resident of Montgomery. When the company disbanded he obtained a situation as conductor on a railroad in Tennessee, and was afterwards made Assistant Superintendent, which position he resigned to take the agency of the Adams Express Company, in Montgomery. His whole life seemed spotless up to the time of the mysterious disappearance of the ten thousand dollars. In the fall of the year, Maroney obtained leave of absence, and made a trip to the North, visiting the principal cities of the East, and also of the Northwest. He was followed on this trip, but nothing was discovered, with the single exception that his associates were not always such as were desirable in an employé, to whose keeping very heavy interests were from time to time necessarily committed. He was lost sight of at Richmond, Va., for a few days, and was supposed by the man who was following him, to have passed the time in Charleston. The company now gave up all hope of recovering the money; but as Maroney's habits were expensive, and they had lost, somewhat, their confidence in him, they determined to remove him and place some less objectionable person in his place. Maroney's passion for fine horses has already been alluded to. It was stated about this time that he owned several fast horses; among others, "Yankee Mary," a horse for which he was said to have paid two thousand five hundred dollars; but as he had brought seven thousand five hundred dollars with him when he entered the employ of the company, this could not be considered a suspicious circumstance. It having been determined to remove Maroney, the Vice-President of the company wrote to the Superintendent of the Southern Division of the steps he wished taken. The Superintendent of the Southern Division visited Montgomery on the twentieth of January, 1859, but was anticipated in the matter of carrying out his instructions, by Maroney's tendering his resignation. The resignation was accepted, but the superintendent requested him to continue in charge of the office until his successor should arrive. This he consented to do. _CHAPTER II._ Previous to Maroney's trip to the North, Mr. Boyer held a consultation with the Vice-President and General Superintendent of the company. He freely admitted his inability to fathom the mystery surrounding the loss of the money, and thought the officers of the company did Maroney a great injustice in supposing him guilty of the theft. He said he knew of only one man who could bring out the robbery, and he was living in Chicago. Pinkerton was the name of the man he referred to. He had established an agency in Chicago, and was doing a large business. He (Boyer) had every confidence in his integrity and ability, which was more than he could say of the majority of detectives, and recommended the Vice-President to have him come down and look into the case. This ended the case for most of the detectives. One by one they had gone away, and nothing had been developed by them. The Vice-President, still anxious to see if anything could be done, wrote a long and full statement of the robbery and sent it to me, with the request that I would give my opinion on it. I was much surprised when I received the letter, as I had not the slightest idea who the Vice-President was, and knew very little about the Adams Express, as, at that time, they had no office in the West. I, however, sat down and read it over very carefully, and, on finishing it, determined to make a point in the case if I possibly could. I reviewed the whole of the Vice-President's letter, debating every circumstance connected with the robbery, and finally ended my consideration of the subject with the firm conviction that the robbery had been committed either by the agent, Maroney, or by the messenger, and I was rather inclined to give the blame to Maroney. The letter was a very long one, but one of which I have always been proud. Having formed my opinion, I wrote to the Vice-President, explained to him the ground on which I based my conclusions, and recommended that they keep Maroney in their employ, and have a strict watch maintained over his actions. After sending my letter, I could do nothing until the Vice-President replied, which I expected he would do in a few days; but I heard nothing more of the affair for a long time, and had almost entirely forgotten it, when I received a telegraphic dispatch from him, sent from Montgomery, and worded about as follows: "ALLAN PINKERTON: Can you send me a man--half horse and half alligator? I have got 'bit' once more! When can you send him?" The dispatch came late Saturday night, and I retired to my private office to think the matter over. The dispatch gave me no information from which I could draw any conclusions. No mention was made of how the robbery was committed, or of the amount stolen. I had not received any further information of the ten thousand dollar robbery. How had they settled that? It was hard to decide what kind of a man to send! I wanted to send the very best, and would gladly go myself, but did not know whether the robbery was important enough to demand my personal attention. I did not know what kind of men the officers of the company were, or whether they would be willing to reward a person properly for his exertions in their behalf. At that time I had no office in New York, and knew nothing of the ramifications of the company. Besides, I did not know how I would be received in the South. I had held my anti-slavery principles too long to give them up. They had been bred in my bones, and it was impossible to eradicate them. I was always stubborn, and in any circumstances would never abandon principles I had once adopted. Slavery was in full blossom, and an anti-slavery man could do nothing in the South. As I had always been a man somewhat after the John Brown stamp, aiding slaves to escape, or keeping them employed, and running them into Canada when in danger, I did not think it would do for me to make a trip to Montgomery. I did not know what steps had already been taken in the case, or whether the loss was a heavy one. From the Vice-President's saying he wanted a man "half horse, half alligator," I supposed he wanted a man who could at least affiliate readily with the inhabitants of the South. But what class was he to mix with? Did he want a man to mix with the rough element, or to pass among gentlemen? I could select from my force any class of man he could wish. But what _did he wish_? I was unaware of who had recommended me to the Vice-President, as at that time I had not been informed that my old friend Boyer had spoken so well of me. What answer should I make to the dispatch? It must be answered immediately! These thoughts followed each other in rapid succession as I held the dispatch before me. I finally settled on Porter as the proper man to send, and immediately telegraphed the Vice-President, informing him that Porter would start for Montgomery by the first train. I then sent for Porter and gave him what few instructions I could. I told him the little I knew of the case, and that I should have to rely greatly on his tact and discretion. Up to that time I had never done any business for the Adams Express, and as their business was well worth having, I was determined to win. He was to go to Montgomery and get thoroughly acquainted with the town and its surroundings; and as my suspicions had become aroused as to the integrity of the agent, Maroney, he was to form his acquaintance, and frequent the saloons and livery stables of the town, the Vice-President's letter having made me aware of Maroney's inclination for fast horses. He was to keep his own counsel, and, above all things, not let it become known that he was from the North, but to hail from Richmond, Va., thus securing for himself a good footing with the inhabitants. He was also to dress in the Southern style; to supply me with full reports describing the town and its surroundings, the manners and customs of its people, all he saw or heard about Maroney, the messengers and other employés of the company; whether Maroney was married, and, if so, any suspicious circumstances in regard to his wife as well as himself--in fact, to keep me fully informed of all that occurred. I should have to rely on his discretion until his reports were received; but then I could direct him how to act. I also instructed him to obey all orders from the Vice-President, and to be as obliging as possible. Having given him his instructions, I started him off on the first train, giving him a letter of introduction to the Vice-President. On Porter's arriving in Montgomery he sent me particulars of the case, from which I learned that while Maroney was temporarily filling the position of agent, among other packages sent to the Montgomery office, on the twenty-seventh of January, 1859, were four containing, in the aggregate, forty thousand dollars, of which one, of two thousand five hundred dollars, was to be sent to Charleston, S. C., and the other three, of thirty thousand, five thousand, and two thousand five hundred respectively, were intended for Augusta. These were receipted for by Maroney, and placed in the vault to be sent off the next day. On the twenty-eighth the pouch was given to the messenger, Mr. Chase, and by him taken to Atlanta. When the pouch was opened, it was found that none of these packages were in it, although they were entered on the way-bill which accompanied the pouch, and were duly checked off. The poor messenger was thunder-struck, and for a time acted like an idiot, plunging his hand into the vacant pouch over and over again, and staring vacantly at the way-bill. The Assistant Superintendent of the Southern Division was in the Atlanta office when the loss was discovered, and at once telegraphed to Maroney for an explanation. Receiving no reply before the train started for Montgomery, he got aboard and went directly there. On his arrival he went to the office and saw Maroney, who said he knew nothing at all of the matter. He had delivered the packages to the messenger, had his receipt for them, and of course could not be expected to keep track of them when out of his possession. Before Mr. Hall, the route agent, left Atlanta he had examined the pouch carefully, but could find no marks of its having been tampered with. He had immediately telegraphed to another officer of the company, who was at Augusta, and advised him of what had happened. The evening after the discovery of the loss the pouch was brought back by the messenger from Atlanta, who delivered it to Maroney. Maroney took out the packages, compared them with the way-bill, and, finding them all right, he threw down the pouch and placed the packages in the vault. In a few moments he came out, and going over to where Mr. Hall was standing, near where he had laid down the pouch, he picked it up and proceeded to examine it. He suddenly exclaimed, "Why, it's cut!" and handed it over to Mr. Hall. Mr. Hall, on examination, found two cuts at right angles to each other, made in the side of the pouch and under the pocket which is fastened on the outside, to contain the way-bill. On Sunday the General Superintendent arrived in Montgomery, when a strict investigation was made, but nothing definite was discovered, and the affair seemed surrounded by an impenetrable veil of mystery. It was, however, discovered that on the day the missing packages were claimed to have been sent away, there were several rather unusual incidents in the conduct of Maroney. After consultation with Mr. Hall and others, the General Superintendent determined that the affair should not be allowed to rest, as was the ten thousand dollar robbery, and had Maroney arrested, charged with stealing the forty thousand dollars. The robbery of so large an amount caused great excitement in Montgomery. The legislature was in session, and the city was crowded with senators, representatives and visitors. Everywhere, on the streets, in the saloons, in private families, and at the hotels, the great robbery of the Express Company was the universal topic of conversation. Maroney had become such a favorite that nearly all the citizens sympathized with him, and in unmeasured terms censured the company for having him arrested. They claimed that it was another instance of the persecution of a poor man by a powerful corporation, to cover the carelessness of those high in authority, and thus turn the blame on some innocent person. Maroney was taken before Justice Holtzclaw, and gave the bail which was required--forty thousand dollars--for his appearance for examination a few days later; prominent citizens of the town actually vieing with one another for an opportunity to sign his bail-bond. At the examination the Company presented such a weak case that the bail was reduced to four thousand dollars, and Maroney was bound over in that amount to appear for trial at the next session of the circuit court, to be held in June. The evidence was such that there was little prospect of his conviction on the charge unless the company could procure additional evidence by the time the trial was to come off. It was the desire of the company to make such inquiries, and generally pursue such a course as would demonstrate the guilt or the possible innocence of the accused. It was absolutely necessary for their own preservation to show that depredations upon them could not be committed with impunity. They offered a reward of ten thousand dollars for the recovery of the money, promptly made good the loss of the parties who had entrusted the several amounts to their charge, and looked around to select such persons to assist them as would be most likely to secure success. The amount was large enough to warrant the expenditure of a considerable sum in its recovery, and the beneficial influence following the conviction of the guilty party would be ample return for any outlay securing that object. The General Superintendent therefore telegraphed to me, as before related, requesting me to send a man to work up the case. _CHAPTER III._ Mr. Porter had a very rough journey to Montgomery, and was delayed some days on the road. It was in the depth of winter, and in the North the roads were blockaded with snow, while in the South there was constant rain. The rivers were flooded, carrying away the bridges and washing out the embankments of the railroads, very much impeding travel. On his arrival in Montgomery he saw the General Superintendent and presented his letter. He received from him the particulars of the forty thousand dollar robbery, and immediately reported them to me. The General Superintendent directed him to watch--"shadow" as we call it--the movements of Maroney, find out who were his companions, and what saloons he frequented. Porter executed his duties faithfully, and reported to me that Montgomery was decidedly a fast town; that the Exchange Hotel, where Maroney boarded, was kept by Mr. Floyd, former proprietor of the Briggs House, Chicago, and, although not the leading house of the town, was very much liked, as it was well conducted. From the meagre reports I had received I found I had to cope with no ordinary man, but one who was very popular, while I was a poor nameless individual, with a profession which most people were inclined to look down upon with contempt. I however did not flinch from the undertaking, but wrote to Porter to do all he could, and at the same time wrote to the General Superintendent, suggesting the propriety of sending another man, who should keep in the background and "spot" Maroney and his wife, or their friends, so that if any one of them should leave town he could follow him, leaving Porter in Montgomery, to keep track of the parties there. There were, of course, a number of suspicious characters in a town of the size of Montgomery, and it was necessary to keep watch of many of them. Maroney frequented a saloon kept by a man whom I will call Patterson. Patterson's saloon was the fashionable drinking resort of Montgomery, and was frequented by all the fast men in town. Although outwardly a very quiet, respectable place, inwardly, as Porter found, it was far from reputable. Up stairs were private rooms, in which gentlemen met to have a quiet game of poker; while down stairs could be found the greenhorn, just "roped in," and being swindled, at _three card monte_. There were, also, rooms where the "young bloods" of the town--as well as the old--could meet ladies of easy virtue. It was frequented by fast men from New Orleans, Mobile, and other places, who were continually arriving and departing. I advised the General Superintendent that it would be best to have Porter get in with the "bloods" of the town, make himself acquainted with any ladies Maroney or his wife might be familiar with, and adopt generally the character of a fast man. As soon as the General Superintendent received my letter he telegraphed to me to send the second man, and also requested me to meet him, at a certain date, in New York. I now glanced over my force to see who was the best person to select for a "shadow". Porter had been promoted by me to be a sort of "roper". Most people may suppose that nearly any one can perform the duties of a "shadow", and that it is the easiest thing in the world to follow up a man; but such is not the case. A "shadow" has a most difficult position to maintain. It will not do to follow a person on the opposite side of the street, or close behind him, and when he stops to speak to a friend stop also; or if a person goes into a saloon, or store, pop in after him, stand staring till he goes out, and then follow him again. Of course such a "shadow" would be detected in fifteen minutes. Such are not the actions of the real "shadow", or, at least, of the "shadow" furnished by my establishment. I had just the man for the place, in Mr. Roch, who could follow a person for any length of time, and never be discovered. Having settled on Roch as the proper man for the position, I summoned him to my private office. Roch was a German. He was about forty-five years old, of spare appearance and rather sallow or tanned complexion. His nose was long, thin and peaked, eyes clear but heavy looking, and hair dark. He was slightly bald, and though he stooped a little, was five feet ten inches in height. He had been in my employ for many years, and I knew him thoroughly, and could trust him. I informed him of the duties he was to perform, and gave him minute instructions how he was to act. He was to keep out of sight as much as possible in Montgomery. Porter would manage to see him on his arrival, unknown to any one there, and would point out to him Maroney and his wife, and the messenger, Chase, who boarded at the Exchange; also Patterson, the saloon keeper, and all suspected parties. He was not to make himself known to Floyd, of the Exchange, or to McGibony, the local detective. I had also given Porter similar instructions. I suggested to him the propriety of lodging at some low boarding house where liquor was sold. He was to keep me fully posted by letter of the movements of all suspected parties, and if any of them left town to follow them and immediately inform me by telegraph who they were and where they were going, so that I could fill his place in Montgomery. Having given him his instructions, I selected for his disguise a German dress. This I readily procured from my extensive wardrobe, which I keep well supplied by frequent attendance at sales of old articles. When he had rigged himself up in his long German coat, his German cap with the peak behind, and a most approved pair of emigrant boots, he presented himself to me with his long German pipe in his mouth, and I must say I was much pleased with his disguise, in which his own mother would not have recognized him. He was as fine a specimen of a Dutchman as could be found. Having thoroughly impressed on his mind the importance of the case and my determination to win the esteem of the company by ferreting out the thief, if possible, I started him for Montgomery, where he arrived in due time. At the date agreed upon I went to New York to meet the General Superintendent. I had never met the gentlemen of the company and I was a little puzzled how to act with them. I met the Vice-President at the express office, in such a manner that none of the employés were the wiser as to my profession or business, and he made an appointment to meet me at the Astor House in the afternoon. At the Astor House he introduced me to the President, the General Superintendent of the company, and we immediately proceeded to business. They gave me all the particulars of the case they could, though they were not much fuller than those I had already received from Porter's reports. They reviewed the life of Maroney, as already related, up to the time he became their agent, stating that he was married, although his marriage seemed somewhat "mixed". As far as they could find out, Mrs. Maroney was a widow, with one daughter, Flora Irvin, who was about seven or eight years old. Mrs. Maroney was from a very respectable family, now living in Philadelphia or its environs. She was reported to have run away from home with a roué, whose acquaintance she had formed, but who soon deserted her. Afterwards she led the life of a fast woman at Charleston, New Orleans, Augusta, Ga., and Mobile, at which latter place she met Maroney, and was supposed to have been married to him. After Maroney was appointed agent in Montgomery he brought her with him, took a suite of rooms at the Exchange, and introduced her as his wife. On account of these circumstances the General Superintendent did not wish to meet her, and, when in Montgomery, always took rooms at another hotel. The Vice-President said he had nearly come to the conclusion that Maroney was not guilty of the ten thousand dollar robbery; but when my letter reached him, with my comments on the robbery, he became convinced that _he was_ the guilty party. He was strengthened in this opinion by the actions of Maroney while on his Northern tour, and by the fact that immediately on his return the fast mare "Yankee Mary" made her appearance in Montgomery and that Maroney backed her heavily. It was not known that he was her owner, it being generally reported that Patterson and other fast men were her proprietors. This was all the Vice-President and General Superintendent had been able to discover while South, and they were aware that I had very little ground on which to work. I listened to all they had to say on the subject and took full memoranda of the facts. I then stated that although Maroney had evidently planned and carried out the robbery with such consummate ability that he had not left the slightest clue by which he could be detected, still, if they would only give me plenty of time, I would bring the robbery home to him. I maintained, as a cardinal principle, that it is impossible for the human mind to retain a secret. All history proves that no one can hug a secret to his breast and live. Everyone must have a vent for his feelings. It is impossible to keep them always penned up. This is especially noticeable in persons who have committed criminal acts. They always find it necessary to select some one in whom they can confide and to whom they can unburden themselves. We often find that persons who have committed grave offenses will fly to the moors, or to the prairies, or to the vast solitudes of almost impenetrable forests, and there give vent to their feelings. I instanced the case of Eugene Aram, who took up his abode on the bleak and solitary moor, and, removed from the society of his fellow-men, tried to maintain his secret by devoting himself to astronomical observations and musings with nature, but who, nevertheless, felt compelled to relieve his overburdened mind by muttering to himself details of the murder while taking his long and dreary walks on the moor. If Maroney had committed the robbery and no one knew it but himself, I would demonstrate the truth of my theory by proving that he would eventually seek some one in whom he thought he could confide and to whom he would entrust the secret. My plan was to supply him with a confidant. It would take time to execute such a plan, but if they would have patience all would be well. I would go to Montgomery and become familiar with the town. I was unknown there and should remain so, only taking a letter to their legal advisers, Watts, Judd & Jackson, whom I supposed would cheerfully give me all the information in their power. I also informed them that it would be necessary to detail more detectives to work up the case. I found the officers of the company genial, pleasant men, possessed of great executive ability and untiring energy, and felt that my duties would be doubly agreeable by being in the interests of such men. They ended the interview by authorizing me to employ what men I thought proper; stating that they had full confidence in me, and that they thought I would be enabled to unearth the guilty parties ere long. They further authorized me to use my own judgment in all things; but expected me to keep them fully informed of what was going on. I started for Montgomery the same day, but was as unfortunate in meeting with delay as were my detectives. The rivers were filled with floating ice and I was ice-bound in the Potomac for over thirty hours. I was obliged to go back to Alexandria, where I took the train and proceeded, via West Point and Atlanta, to Montgomery. On the journey I amused myself reading Martin Chuzzlewit, which I took good care to throw away on the road, as its cuts at slavery made it unpopular in the South. At the various stations planters got aboard, sometimes conveying their slaves from point to point, sometimes travelling with their families to neighboring cities. I did not converse with them, as I was not sure of my ability to refrain from divulging my abolition sentiments. On my arrival in Montgomery I took up my quarters at the Exchange and impressed upon Mr. Floyd the necessity of keeping my presence a secret. He had no idea that I was after Maroney, but supposed I was merely on a visit to the South. I took no notice of Maroney, but managed to see Porter and Roch privately. They informed me that they had discovered little or nothing. Maroney kept everything to himself. He and his wife went out occasionally. He frequented Patterson's, sometimes going into the card rooms, drove out with a fast horse, and passed many hours in his counsel's office. This was all Porter knew. Roch was to do nothing but "spot" the suspected parties and follow any one of them who might leave town. He was to be a Dutchman, and he acted the character to perfection. He could be seen sitting outside of his boarding-house with his pipe in his mouth, and he apparently did nothing but puff, puff, puff all day long. There was a saloon in town where lager was sold and he could, occasionally, be found here sipping his lager; but although apparently a stupid, phlegmatic man, taking no notice of what was going on around him, he drank in, with his lager, every word that was said. I found that Mrs. Maroney was a very smart woman, indeed, and that it would be necessary to keep a strict watch over her. I therefore informed the Vice-President that I would send down another detective especially to shadow her, as she might leave at any moment for the North and take the forty thousand dollars with her. I had no objections to her taking the money to the North. On the contrary, I preferred she should do so, as I would much rather carry on the fight on Northern soil than in the South. I found Messrs. Watts, Judd & Jackson, the company's lawyers, were excellent men, clear-headed and accommodating. They gladly furnished me with what little information they possessed. _CHAPTER IV._ Before I left Montgomery on my return to the North, I became acquainted with the local detective, McGibony, without letting him know who I was. In accordance with a plan which I always carry out, of watching the actions of those around me, I kept my eye on him, and found that he was quite "thick" with Maroney. He boarded at the Exchange, drank with Maroney in saloons, and even passed with him into the card-room at Patterson's. At this time McGibony had in his charge a distinguished prisoner, being no less a personage than the old planter whom Johnson H. Hooper so graphically described as "Simon Suggs;" by which name I will continue to call him. Suggs had been arrested for the commission of a series of misdemeanors, but, as he was a great favorite, he was allowed the freedom of the city, and was joyfully welcomed at the hotels and saloons. Simon was about fifty-six years old, the dryest kind of a wit, and extremely fond of his bitters. He lived about forty miles out from Montgomery, on the Coosa river, but about a week prior to the time I saw him, had come to Montgomery to see his friends. Simon's morality was not of the highest order, and the first place he visited was Patterson's saloon. Here he met a few congenial spirits, took several drinks with them, and then, being "flush,"--a very unusual thing for him--he proceeded to "buck the tiger." Like too many others, he bucked too long, and soon found himself penniless. Not to be outdone, however, he rushed out and borrowed one hundred dollars from a friend, promising to return it the first thing in the morning. With this money he returned to the unequal contest, but before long was again strapped. In the morning, as he was walking along the street, in a very penitential mood, he was accosted by his friend, who demanded of him the one hundred dollars he had borrowed. Simon put on a very important air, and in a tone of confidence which he was far from feeling, assured him he should have the money before he left town. As Simon strolled along, puzzling his brain as to how he could raise the necessary funds to pay off his friend, he saw the tall, ungainly form of a backwoods planter shuffling down the street towards him. The planter was dressed in a suit of butternut, which had become very much shrunken, from exposure to all kinds of weather. His coat sleeves did not reach far below his elbows, and there was a considerable space between the bottom of his breeches and the top of his shoes. He was as "thin as a rail," and if he stood upright would have been very tall, but he was bent nearly double. He had a slouched hat on, which partly concealed his long, lantern-jawed visage, while his shaggy, uncombed hair fell to his shoulders, and gave one a feeling that it contained many an inhabitant, like that which caused Burns to write those famous lines containing the passage: "Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us, To see _oursels_ as _ithers_ see us!" As he came down the street he stopped occasionally and gawked around. Simon was always ready for fun, and determined to see what the planter was up to. Accordingly, as they met, Simon said, "Good mornin'!" "Good mornin'!" replied the gawky. "Have yer lost summat?" asked Simon. "Wal, no, stranger, but I wants to git some money changed, and I'll be durned if I can diskiver a bank in this yar village." "Bin sellin' niggers, eh?" "You're out thar," replied the planter. "I've bin sellin' cotton." "I'm jist the man to help yer! I'm gwine to my bank. Gin me yer money, and come along with me and I'll change it for yer!" The gawky was much pleased at Simon's kind attention, and remarking that "he reckoned he was the squarest man he had met," he turned over his money--some four hundred dollars--to Simon, and they started off together to get it changed. On the road Simon stepped into a saloon with the planter, called up all the inmates to take a drink, and telling the planter he would be back with the money in a few minutes, started off. Fifteen minutes passed away. The planter took several drinks, and began to think his friend was a long time in getting the money changed, but supposed he must be detained at the bank. At the end of half an hour he began to grow decidedly uneasy, but still Simon did not come. At the expiration of an hour he was furious, and if Simon had fallen into his hands at that time, he would have doubtless been made mince meat of unceremoniously. Simon, on leaving the saloon, had gone to his friend and, out of the poor planter's funds, had paid him the hundred dollars he owed him, and, with the three hundred dollars in his pocket, started for Patterson's. He proceeded to "buck the tiger," and soon lost nearly all of it. To see if his luck would not change, he gave up the game, and started at "roulette." Here he steadily won, and soon had over seven hundred dollars in his possession. He was now all excitement, and jumped with many a "whoop-la" around the table, to the great amusement of the spectators. He was about to give up play, but they urged him on, saying he had a run of luck, and should not give up till he broke the bank. Thus encouraged, he played for heavy stakes, and was soon completely "cleaned out," and left Patterson's without a cent. He went to a friend and borrowed twenty-five dollars to help him out of town. He was considered good for a small short loan; and going to his hotel, he paid his bill, and mounting his dilapidated steed, started for his home, forty miles distant, at as great a speed as he could get out of his poor "Rosinante." In the South, men, women and children, always make short journeys on horseback. Simon travelled for two hours, when he reached the Coosa river, about fifteen miles from Montgomery. At this point lived a wealthy widow, with whom he was well acquainted, and here he determined to pass the night. He was joyfully welcomed by the widow, who ordered one of her negroes to put up his horse and conducted him into the house. She had a good supper prepared, Simon ate a hearty meal, spent a few delightful hours in the widow's company, and was then shown to his room. He was soon in the arms of Morpheus, and arose in the morning as gay as a lark. Throwing open the casement, he let in the fresh morning breeze and took in at a glance the rich Southern landscape. Immediately below him, and sloping in well kept terraces to the banks of the Coosa, was a trim garden, filled with flowers, among which, in fine bloom, were numerous varieties of the rose. The sluggish waters of the Coosa flowed without a ripple between its well wooded banks, the trees on opposite sides often interlocking their branches. Beyond the river was a wilderness of forest; the slaves were going to their labor in the cotton fields, singing and chatting gaily like a party of children. It was indeed a beautiful scene, and who could more thoroughly appreciate the beautiful than Simon? Hurriedly dressing himself, he went to the breakfast room, where he found waiting for him the buxom widow, dressed in a loose morning robe, admirably adapted to display the charms of her figure. After a delicious repast of coffee and fruit the widow proposed that as it was such a lovely morning they take a boat-ride on the river. Simon willingly acquiesced, and the widow, after ordering a well filled lunch-basket to be placed in the boat, not forgetting a "little brown jug" for Simon, took his arm, and tripping gaily down to the river, embarked. Simon pulled strongly at the oars until a bend of the river hid them from view of the plantation, when, taking in the oars, he seated himself by the widow, and placing an oar at the stern to steer with, they glided down the river. Simon was married, but was a firm believer in the theory advanced by Moore, that --"when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near." The persimmons hung in tempting bunches within easy reach overhead, and Simon would pull them down and shower them into the widow's lap. Occasionally he would steal his arm around her waist, when she, with a coy laugh, would pronounce him an "impudent fellow." Occasionally he would raise the little brown jug and take a hearty pull; finally he stole a few kisses, the widow dropped her head resignedly on his shoulder, and so they floated down the current, loving "not wisely, but too well." On and on they floated, entirely oblivious of time, when they were suddenly startled by a wild halloo. The widow started up with a scream, and Simon grasped the oars as soon as possible. Just in front of them, seated on his horse, and with his revolver ready cocked in his hand, sat the deputy sheriff of Montgomery. "Simon Suggs," said he, "jist you git out of that thar boat and come along with me; I've got a warrant for your arrest!" "Oh! hav yer?" said Simon, "that's all right; I'll jist take this yar lady hum, git my critter, and come in to Montgomery." "No," said the inexorable deputy, "that won't do, jist you git out of that thar boat and come with me." The widow now interposed, and in plaintive tone said, "But, sir, what am I to do? It will never do for me to return without Mr. Suggs; what will my niggers think of it? You, Mr. Deputy, can get into the boat with us and go to my house; while you are eating dinner I will send one of my niggers to fetch your horse." The deputy was finally persuaded to take this course, and securing his horse, he got into the boat. It will now be necessary to relate how the deputy happened to appear at such an inopportune moment for Simon. The planter, after awaiting the return of Simon for over two hours, was informed by the saloon keeper to whom he appealed, that he had entrusted his money to Simon Suggs, and that his chances of ever seeing it again were poor indeed. On discovering this he swore out a warrant against Simon and placed it in the hands of the sheriff to execute. The Sheriff found that Simon had left town, and immediately his deputy, mounted on a fast horse, started in pursuit. The deputy passed Simon at the widow's, and went directly to his house. He found Mrs. Suggs at home, and demanded of her the whereabouts of Simon. Mrs. Suggs said she did not pretend to keep track of him; that he was a lazy, shiftless fellow, who never supported his family; that about a week previously he had left home, and she had not set her eyes on him since. The deputy informed her that Simon had committed a grave offense, and that he had a warrant for his arrest. Mrs. Suggs ended the interview by saying she always thought Simon would come to a bad end, and slammed the door in the deputy's face. The Deputy Sheriff passed the night at a friend's, and the next morning retraced his steps, making inquiries along the road at the different plantations, endeavoring to get some trace of Simon. When he reached the widow's he was told by a slave that "Massa Simon" and the "Missus" had shortly before gone down the river for a boat ride, and taking a short cut through the fields he headed them off. The return journey was against the current, and Simon was pulling away at the oars, the perspiration starting in large drops from his forehead and running down into his eyes, or streaking his cheeks, while the deputy was gaily entertaining the widow, who was about equally divided in her attentions. As they proceeded Simon would say, "A very deep place here;" "bar here;" "push her off a little from that snag," etc., and the deputy would occasionally supply the widow with persimmons. While in the deepest part of the stream the widow discovered a splendid bunch of persimmons hanging from a bough which reached to the centre of the river. She declared she _must_ have them. Simon rested on his oars, while the gallant deputy got on the seat, and by raising himself on his tip toes, just managed to reach the bough, a good strong one, and, grasping it with both hands, he proceeded to bend it down so as to reach the fruit. At this inopportune moment Simon gave way to his oars, and left the poor deputy hanging in the air. [Illustration: _At this inopportune moment Simon gave way to his oars, and left the poor deputy hanging in the air._--Page 40.] "Hold on! hold on!" yelled the deputy; "don't you know you are interfering with an officer of the law?" "My advice ter you is to hold on yourself," was all the consolation he got from Simon, while the widow was convulsed with laughter. Leaving the deputy to extricate himself from his awkward position as best he could, Simon rowed rapidly to the house, sent a negro to bring the deputy's horse, and after eating an enormous lunch, mounted and started for home. The deputy hung to the limb and yelled for assistance, but no one came, and he found he could hold on no longer. He could not swim, and he felt that in dropping from the limb he would certainly meet a watery grave. All his life he had had a horror of water, and now to be drowned in the hated liquid was too hard. He made desperate efforts to climb up, on the limb, but could not do it. His arms were so strained that he thought they would be pulled from their sockets. He had strung many a negro up by the thumbs to thrash him, but he little thought he should have been strung up himself. His strength rapidly failed him, and he found he could maintain his hold no longer. Closing his eyes, he strove to pray, but could not. Finding the effort useless, he let go his hold, while a cold shudder ran through his body--what a moment of supreme agony!--and dropped into the river. Over such harrowing scenes it were better to throw a veil of silence, but I must go on. He dropped into the river, and as the water was only knee deep, he waded to the bank. His combined emotions overcame him, and on reaching the bank he threw himself down under the shade of some trees and, completely exhausted, sunk into a deep sleep. How long he slept he could not tell, but on awaking he sprang up and hurried to the place where he had left his horse. Finding it gone, he walked into Montgomery and reported to the Sheriff, not daring to face the widow after the ridiculous tableau in which he had been the principal performer. The Sheriff procured the services of McGibony, and the next day went with him to Simon's home, and arrested him without difficulty. In the North, Simon would have been kept a close prisoner; but the fun-loving inhabitants of Montgomery looked on the whole transaction as a very good joke, and Simon was decidedly "in clover," having liberty to go where he wished, and being maintained at the county's expense. I judged from the circumstances that McGibony was not to be trusted, and concluded that authorities who could execute the law so leniently, would be poor custodians for a prisoner of Maroney's stamp. On my return trip to Chicago I stopped over at Rome, Ga., where Maroney's father lived. I discovered that the doctor lived well, although he was a man of small means. I took a general survey of the town, and then went directly to Chicago. _CHAPTER V._ On arriving in Chicago I selected Mr. Green to "shadow" Mrs. Maroney. Giving him the same full instructions I had given the other operatives, I despatched him for Montgomery. He arrived there none too soon. Mrs. Maroney had grown rather commanding in her manners, and was very arrogant with the servants in the house. She also found great fault with the proprietor, Mr. Floyd, for not having some necessary repairs in her room attended to. One of the lady boarders, the wife of a senator, treated her with marked coolness; and these various circumstances so worked on her high-strung temperament that she was thrown into an uncontrollable fit of passion, during which she broke the windows in her room. The landlord insisted on her paying for them, but she indignantly refused to do so. On his pressing the matter, she determined to leave the house and make a trip to the North. Porter had become quite intimate with the slave-servants in the Exchange, and easily managed to get from them considerable information, without attracting any special attention. One of the servants, named Tom, was the bootblack of the hotel. He had a young negro under him as a sort of an apprentice. The duties of the apprentice, though apparently slight, were in reality arduous, as he had to supply all the spittle required to moisten the blacking; and for this purpose placed himself under a course of diet that rendered him as juicy as possible. Early in the morning Tom and his assistant would pass from door to door. Stopping wherever they saw a pair of boots, they would at once proceed to business. The helper would seize a boot and give a tremendous "hawk," which would cause the sleeping inmate of the room to start up in his bed and rub his eyes. He would then apply the blacking and hand the boot to Tom, who stood ready to artistically apply the polishing brush. During the whole of this latter operation the little negro would dance a breakdown, while Tom, seated on the chair brought for his accommodation, would whistle or sing an accompaniment. By this time the inmate of the room would have sprung from his bed, and rushed to the door, with the intention of breaking their heads--not shins--but, on opening the door, the scene presented would be so ludicrous that his anger would be smothered in laughter, and Tom generally received a quarter, as he started for the next door. Sleep was completely vanquished by the time they had made their rounds, and the greatest sluggard who ever reiterated "God bless the man who first invented sleep," would find himself drawn from his downy pillow at break of day, with never a murmur. Tom was naturally of an enquiring turn of mind, and as he passed from door to door saw and heard a good deal. Porter, by giving him an occasional fee, had made Tom his fast friend, and he would often regale him with bits of scandal about different boarders in the house. On the evening of the same day that Mrs. Maroney had given way to her temper, as Porter was passing through the hall of the hotel, he heard peals of laughter emanating from the room used by Tom as his blacking headquarters. Going in, he found Tom, perfectly convulsed with laughter, rolling around amongst the blacking brushes and old shoes, while the little negro, with his mouth wide open and eyes starting almost out of his head, looked at him in utter astonishment. "Why! what's the matter, Tom?" inquired Porter. It was some time before Tom could answer, but he finally burst out with: "Oh! golly, Massa Porter, you ought to see de fun. Missus 'Roney done gone and smashed all de glass in de winder. I tell you she made tings hot. Massa Floyd say she must pay for de glass, and she tole him she's not gwine to stop in dis yer house a moment longer. Yah! yah! yah! Den Massa 'Roney come, and he fly right off de handle, and tole Massa Floyd he had _consulted_ his wife. Massa Floyd tole dem dey could go somewhere else fur all he care. Massa 'Roney tole de missus to pack up and go to de North, de fust ting in de morning. So Missus 'Roney is gwine to go North. Wonder what she'll do thar, wid no niggers to confusticate? Yah! yah! yah!" Porter drew from the darkey full particulars of the affair, and also that he had seen Maroney pass a large sum of money over to his wife. Giving Tom a quarter, Porter hurried off after Green, and got him ready to start the first thing in the morning. Bright and early on the twelfth of March, Porter arose, and, _quite accidentally_, ran across Tom, who had just come down with Mrs. Maroney's shoes. "She is gwine, sure," said Tom! "she tole me to hurry up wid dese shoes. Her and Massa 'Roney am habin a big confab, but dey talk so low, dis nigger can't hear a word dey say." Porter hurried Green to the train, and came back in time to see Maroney get into a carriage, with his wife and her daughter Flora, and drive off toward the station. Maroney secured for them a comfortable seat in the ladies' car, and, bidding them good-bye, returned to the hotel. Of course Green was on the same train, but, as I had instructed him, not in the same car. He took a seat in the rear end of the car immediately in front of the ladies' car, whence he could keep a sharp lookout on all that went on. Mrs. Maroney went directly to West Point, and from there to Charleston, where she put up at the best hotel, registering "Mrs. Maroney and daughter." The next day, leaving Flora in the hotel, she made a few calls, and at two P. M. embarked on the steamer for New York, Green doing the same. They arrived at New York on the eighteenth and were met at the wharf by a gentleman named Moore, who conducted Mrs. Maroney and Flora to his residence. Green discovered afterwards that the gentleman was a partner in one of the heaviest wholesale clothing-houses in the city. He knew nothing further about Mr. or Mrs. Maroney than that Maroney had treated him with a good deal of consideration at one time when he was in Montgomery selling goods, and he had then requested Maroney and his wife to stop at his house if they ever came to New York. Accordingly Maroney telegraphed to him when his wife left Montgomery, informing him how and when she would reach New York, and he was at the wharf to meet her. Mrs. Maroney and Flora were cordially welcomed by Mr. Moore and remained at his house for some weeks. They were very hospitably entertained and seemed to devote their whole time to social pleasures. Green shadowed them closely and found that nothing of any importance was going on. Porter remained in Montgomery, keeping in the good graces of Maroney and his friends, not that Maroney easily took any one into his confidence; on the contrary, although he was social with every one, he kept his affairs closely to himself. Porter never forced himself on Maroney's company, but merely dropped in, apparently by accident, at Patterson's and other saloons frequented by Maroney, and by holding himself rather aloof, managed to draw Maroney towards him. Maroney used to walk out of town towards the plantations, and Porter, by making himself acquainted with the planters and overseers of the surrounding country, discovered that Maroney's walks were caused by a young lady, the daughter of a wealthy planter; but no new developments were made in regard to the robbery. I instructed Porter to "get in" with any slaves who might be employed as waiters at Patterson's, and worm from them all the information possible in regard to the habitués of the place. There were several men with whom Maroney used to have private meetings at the saloon, and Porter learned from one of the negroes what took place at them. Maroney would take an occasional hand at euchre, but never played for large stakes. There was little doubt but that he had a share in the gambling bank. He frequented the stable where "Yankee Mary" was kept, and often himself drove her out. From the way the parties at Patterson's talked, the negro was positive that she belonged to Maroney. He received several letters from his wife, which Green saw her post, and Porter found he received in due time. So far all my plans had worked well. The regular reports I received from my detectives showed that they were doing their duty and watching carefully all that occurred. Porter, about this time, learned that Maroney intended to make a business trip through Tennessee, and that he would, in all probability, go to Augusta, Ga., and New Orleans. Everything tended to show that he was about to leave Montgomery, and I put Roch, my Dutchman, on the alert. I wrote out full instructions and sent them to Roch; ordered him to keep a strict watch on Maroney, as he might be going away to change the money, and told him to telegraph me immediately if anything happened. It was my intention to buy any money he might get changed, as the bankers in Montgomery stated that they would be able to identify some of the stolen bills. I warned Roch against coming in contact with Maroney on his journey, as I surmised that he was going away to see if he would be followed. This was certainly his intention. For some time I had feared that Maroney had some idea of Porter's reasons for stopping in Montgomery, and felt that if he had, he would be completely disabused of it by discovering that Porter did not follow him. He was an uncommonly shrewd man and had formed a pretty good opinion of detectives and of his ability to outwit them. He had seen the best detectives from New York, New Orleans and other places completely baffled. He expected to be followed by a gentlemanly appearing man, who would drink and smoke occasionally, wear a heavy gold watch chain, and have plenty of money to spend; but the idea of being followed by a poor old Dutchman never entered his head. I charged Roch not to pay any attention to Maroney or to appear to do so until he started to leave Montgomery, and concluded by saying that I felt I could trust him to do all in his power for the agency and for my honor. Maroney made his preparations for departure, all his movements being closely watched by Porter. _CHAPTER VI._ On the fifth of April Maroney, having completed his preparations, started by the first train for Atlanta, _via_ West Point. The day was a very warm one, but Maroney was accompanied to the station by a great number of friends. With many a hearty shake of the hand they bade him farewell, some of them accompanying him to the first, and some even to the second station beyond Montgomery. No one could have started on a journey under more favorable auspices. Before the train started a German might have been seen slowly wending his way to the depot. He had no slaves to follow, or wait upon him. No one knew him, and the poor fellow had not a friend to bid him good-bye. He went to the ticket office, and in broken English said: "I vants a teeket for Vest Point;" and stood puffing at his pipe until the clerk gave him his ticket, for which he paid, and took his seat in a car called, in the South, the "nigger car." He had a rather large satchel, and it must be confessed he was decidedly dirty, as he had been toiling along a dusty road, under the hot Southern sun. In about ten minutes after, Maroney arrived, with his numerous friends, stepped on board, and the train slowly drew out of the station. The German had taken a reversed seat in the rear of his car, and, apparently indifferent to the lively conversation of the negroes around him, slowly smoked his pipe. Maroney took a seat in the ladies' car, talked with his friends, among whom were several ladies, and then had a merry romp with a child. In about three-quarters of an hour he rose, and, walking to the front of the car, scrutinized the faces of all the passengers carefully. Our Dutchman gazed carelessly at him through the window of the car in which he sat. Maroney passed through the "nigger car," not thinking it worth while to take notice of its inmates, and looking on the poor immigrant as no better than a negro. Then he went into the express car, shook hands with the messenger, chatted with him a moment, and passed on to the baggage car. At the first station he stepped off, met several friends, and was well received by all. The conductor collected no fare from him, as he had been a conductor at one time, and that chalked his hat "O. K." He left the train at every station, looked keenly around with an eye that showed plainly that he was fighting for liberty itself, and then returning, passed through it, carefully examining the faces of the passengers. By the time they reached West Point he had regained his old firmness--at least the German thought so. If any one had watched, they might have seen the German go to the ticket office in West Point and, in broken language, inquire for a ticket to Atlanta. Having procured his ticket, he went immediately to the second-class car and continued his journey with Maroney. At West Point Maroney met several friends, who all sympathized with him. After drinking with them he went to the train and into the express car, although it is strict rule of the company that no one but the messenger shall be allowed in it. The rule is often broken, especially in the South, where the polite messengers dislike to ask a gentleman to leave their car. The German took in all that was going on, but who cared for him? poor, stupid dolt! Maroney remained in the express car a short time, and then again passed through the train, but discovered nothing to cause him the slightest uneasiness. On arriving at Atlanta he proceeded to the Atlanta House, and was given a room. The German arrived at the hotel soon after him, and throwing down his satchel, asked, in his broken English, for a room. The clerk scarcely deigning to notice him, sent him to the poorest room the house afforded. Roch, finding that no train left until morning, amused himself with another smoke, at the same time noticing that Maroney was well received by the clerk, whom he knew, and by all the conductors and gentlemen who frequented the hotel. His journey had been almost an entire ovation, and he had become almost completely self-possessed. At eleven he retired for the night. Roch, after waiting for some time, walked noiselessly down the hall to Maroney's room, and listened at the door. Finding all quiet, he walked down to the office, got the key to his room, and went to bed. He got up early in the morning and, with Maroney, took an early breakfast. He kept a close watch on him, and learned from the conversation of some of Maroney's friends, to whom he had divulged his plans, where he was going, and by what route he intended to pursue his journey. He said that he should be gone some five weeks, but would return to Montgomery in time to prepare for his trial. Some of his friends alluded to his arrest for the robbery. He smiled, and said they would soon find that he was not the guilty party; and moreover, that the Express Company would find that it would cost them a good deal before they got through with him, as, after his acquittal, he would certainly sue them for heavy damages. He knew the wealth of the company, and that they would "leave no stone unturned" to ruin him, but he had no fears as to the result, when the facts were laid before a jury of his countrymen. He had many acquaintances at Atlanta, and gave himself up to enjoyment. Roch wrote to me that if he had started out with the expectation of being followed, he had no such fears now. In the evening Maroney complained to the clerk about his room, and Roch became uneasy when he found he had moved to another part of the house. He feared that Maroney might leave town by some private conveyance, and so kept a close watch on his movements. He staid up until a late hour, but finding that Maroney was safe in bed, finally retired. At a very early hour in the morning he was stirring and patiently waited for Maroney to get up. Maroney soon came down, apparently in the best of spirits, and ordered his trunk, a very large one, to be taken to the depot. Roch was seized with a desire to go through this trunk, and determined to do so if he possibly could. He had not seen it at Montgomery as it came down with the other baggage, and one of Maroney's friends had had it checked and handed the check to him when on the train. His desire was useless, as he was not destined to see the inside of the trunk, at least not for the present. He wrote to me of Maroney's having the trunk, and said I might rely on his examining it if he possibly could. Maroney took the train for Chattanooga, still paying no fare. Roch bought a second class ticket and they were soon under way. When about one hour out from Atlanta Maroney passed through the train eyeing all the well-dressed men on board, of whom there were a great many, but paying no attention to the inmates of the "nigger car." He saw no cause for uneasiness, and soon became the happiest man on board. He passed through the cars several times before the train reached Chattanooga, and his spirits seemed to rise after each inspection. When they arrived at Chattanooga. Maroney put up at the Crutchfield House, and being very tired did not go out that evening. He seemed well acquainted with the clerk and some of the guests, drank several times with his friends, and went to his room quite early. Roch wrote to me from the Crutchfield House, where he had also put up, giving me a detailed account of all that had happened, and in a postscript said "Maroney has not the slightest idea that he is being followed, and all is serene." In the morning Maroney sauntered around the city, apparently with no particular object in view, but dropping into some of the stores to visit his friends. Finally he went into a lawyer's office where he remained some time. Roch took up a position where he could watch the office without being observed. At last Maroney came out of the office with a gentleman, went into a saloon with him, where they drank together, and then returned to the hotel to dinner. After dinner he smoked until about two o'clock, and then walked out and started up the main street of the town, towards the suburbs. The day was intensely warm, and there were few people stirring in the streets. When Maroney reached the suburbs he stopped and looked suspiciously around. He took no notice of the German, who was walking along wrapped up in his pipe, his only consolation. Being satisfied that no one was following him, he turned around the corner and suddenly disappeared. When Roch got to the corner he could not see Maroney in any direction. There were blocks of fine houses on both sides of the street, and he was certain Maroney was in one of them. But which one? That he could not tell. He did not like to leave the neighborhood, but it would not do to stay. There were few persons on the street, and if he lingered around the corner he would surely be noticed and suspected. He walked very slowly around the square, but discovering nothing, and fearing that he might alarm the quiet neighborhood, he went back to the hotel. He was now at the end of his rope. He was certain Maroney was in one of the houses, and feared that he was getting the money changed. He might have brought it with him, concealed it on his person, and taken it with him to the house he was now in. Terribly disappointed, he sat down and wrote to me for instructions, thinking that my letter in reply would most likely reach him in Chattanooga. At dusk he went out to the suburbs, but did not find a trace of Maroney. Returning to the hotel, he found that no train left till morning, and weary and worn he went to his room, and in a most despondent mood, soon retired. Early in the morning he came down but there was no sign of Maroney. He determined to peep into his room, and fortunately managed to do so without being discovered, finding his trunk and a bundle of soiled linen still there. Somewhat reassured, he took his breakfast and went down to see the train off. The train started, but Maroney not putting in an appearance, Roch began to feel that he must have been outwitted. As he retraced his steps to the hotel he was astonished to see Maroney on his way to the same place. Roch having once more got his eye on him, determined, if possible, to find out where he had passed the previous night. He thought the matter over, and concluded that for many reasons it would be best to change his boarding place. The people at the hotel did not think much of a poor German, and might conclude he could not pay his bill, and as he did not wish to guarantee payment, he went to his room, brought down his satchel, and going to the office, paid his bill. He had seen a German boarding-house down the street, so taking his satchel in his hand, he went in and enquired if they had a room to spare. He found they had, and on glancing around discovered that the change in many respects was for the better, as from the boarding-house he had a clear view of all that occurred in front of the hotel. He did not see Maroney again until evening, when he came out, looking fresh and bright, having evidently refreshed himself by a bath and a shave. Maroney went into a saloon, talked to several parties, strolled leisurely around, returned to the hotel, passed the evening till ten o'clock with a party of gentlemen, and then retired. Roch rose early, and found that the landlord, who, like most of his countrymen, possessed the good habit of being an early riser, had breakfast ready. After breakfast he took a seat on the verandah, and watched Maroney as he loitered around. At two in the afternoon Maroney sauntered out, and started in the direction of the suburbs. Roch concluded he was going to the place where he had lost him the day before, and now he had the coveted opportunity of finding his hiding place. Walking slowly after him, smoking his pipe and gaping around, until he reached a cross-street, a block from where Maroney had disappeared before, he turned down this street, walked rapidly until he reached the next street running parallel to the one Maroney was on, and turning up it he ran to the corner above, where he got behind the fence, as if urged by a pressing necessity. From his position he could see down the street without being seen. In a moment Maroney reached the corner, a block from him. Looking around, as before, he pulled his hat over his eyes, and, walking rapidly part way down the block, he entered a comfortable looking frame-building. It was painted a creamy white, and its windows were protected by the greenest of green blinds. _CHAPTER VII._ Roch walked around for some time, and then returned to his boarding-house. Finding no one but the landlord and the bar-keeper in the saloon, he bought a bottle of wine, and asked them to join him in drinking it. They gladly consented, and he entered into a conversation with them, in which he pretended to give them a history of his life, and his plans for the future. He complimented the city very highly, saying that he was so much pleased with it that he had determined to buy some property there. He then informed them that he had been looking at some houses, and wished to get the landlord's opinion of them. He--the landlord--had been in the city for many years, and must be well acquainted with the value of property. Roch now called for another bottle of wine, and proceeded to describe some of the houses at which he had been looking. He described several, but one in particular, he said, had taken his fancy; and he then described the house Maroney had entered, saying further that he thought there were several ladies there. The landlord looked at his bar-keeper and winked, and then giving Roch a poke in the ribs, said, with a hearty laugh: "Oh! you have found them out, have you?" Then, with another poke: "You're a sly fellow, you are," and burst into a roar of laughter, in which he was heartily joined by the bar-keeper. Roch pretended not to comprehend what they meant, and turned the conversation to other subjects. He felt very happy when he discovered the character--or rather want of character--of the house, as he now knew the business Maroney was engaged in. Maroney did not make his appearance up to the time the train left, so Roch retired. Early in the morning he arose, ate his breakfast, and was surprised to see Maroney, who must have returned in the night, just coming out of the hotel. Seeing Maroney's trunk just being placed on the baggage wagon, he hastily paid his bill at the boarding-house, and managed to reach the station some time in advance of Maroney. In about half an hour Maroney came up and bought a first-class ticket for Nashville. Roch bought a second-class ticket to the same place, and took up his old position in the "nigger car." Nothing of importance happened between Chattanooga and Nashville. At Nashville Maroney put up at the City Hotel, while Roch obtained lodgings at a German saloon just around the corner. Maroney met plenty of friends, who received him warmly. He amused himself by going to the livery stables, looking at the horses, and driving around the city. He met a gentleman and passed a good deal of time with him, but had no business transactions with him; merely using him as a companion to help kill time. The weather was all that could be desired, and Maroney was "gay as a lark." The second day after his arrival in Nashville, he went into a jeweler's, and remained over three-quarters of an hour: came out, and at the end of three hours again went in, this time stopping over an hour. When he came out Roch discovered that he had a parcel in his hand, and concluded that he had made a purchase. He at once reported the incident to me. The third day, at train time, the trunk was again brought down. Roch went to the depot, wondering what could be the meaning of this move, as the train about to start would take them back to Chattanooga. His suspense was soon put at rest, by Maroney's coming down and buying a ticket to Chattanooga. Roch followed suit, and they were soon on their backward track. Maroney passed through the cars, scrutinizing the passengers, neglecting those in the "nigger car," as heretofore, which was the only incident of the trip to Chattanooga. Here he again put up at the Crutchfield House, while Roch went back to his German boarding-house. He made some excuses to account for his sudden return, but they were unnecessary, for, so long as he paid his bill regularly, the landlord was perfectly satisfied. The next morning Maroney visited a livery stable owned by a man named Cook, who was a great favorite. He was said to have a horse which could out-trot anything in the city. Cook and Maroney drove out several times with this horse, and Maroney examined him critically. He was a good judge of horseflesh, and when he was excited would fairly carry a person away with his vivid description of the delights of "tooling" along behind a fast horse. Roch could not certainly tell whether Maroney had bought the horse or not, but judged he had, as he heard Cook tell Maroney that he should expect to see him on his return to Chattanooga. After leaving Cook, Maroney sauntered out to see his fair, but frail friends. Roch left him there and returned to have a good time with his countrymen. He had ordered up a bottle of wine, and the landlord and he were just about to have a game of euchre when he accidentally glanced up at the hotel. It was fortunate he did so, as whom should he see going in at the main entrance but Maroney. He hastily excused himself from the game and walked out. He had gone hardly a block from his boarding-house before Maroney came down and got into a carriage. He had gone at once to his room, ordered his trunk down, paid his bill and was now being hurried to the depot. Roch followed as fast as he could. Maroney had allowed himself barely enough time to check his trunk and step upon the train as it moved off, so that Roch had to start without his satchel and without buying a ticket. He did not think much of the loss of his baggage, that little loss being more than compensated by the joy he felt at not having lost his man. He had not the slightest idea where Maroney was going, but took up his old position in the "nigger car" and watched closely. When the conductor came around to Maroney, Roch noticed two things: first, that Maroney bought a through ticket to Memphis; and second, that the conductor did not know him. Wherever he had gone before, he had met friends, but now he had left them all behind. Roch followed Maroney's lead and bought a second class ticket to Memphis. Maroney, though utterly unconscious of the fact, was as much in the power of Roch as was Sindbad the Sailor in the power of the little old man who clung to his neck with a grasp that could not be loosened. Although, literally, Roch did not touch him, figuratively he held him with a grasp of iron, and all Maroney's efforts to shake him off would have proved waste of time and strength. A storm was impending when they left Chattanooga and it had now burst upon them in a perfect fury. Night had set in, but flash after flash of lightning lit up the sky. One moment, objects were rendered distinctly visible as they dashed by, the next they were lost in gloom. The sparks from the locomotive were quenched in the falling torrent and the roar of the train was silenced by the loud peals of thunder. It was a wild night, but Roch got on the platform to make sure of Maroney. There were no sleeping-cars at the time and he had no trouble in getting a good view of him. Maroney was stretched out on his seat fast asleep. He watched him for some time, and then concluding that there was little danger of his attempting to leave the car on such a night, he went back to his seat in the "nigger car." Ever since he had left Montgomery, Maroney had been executing a series of strategic movements, and now that he had undoubtedly thrown his pursuers, if there were any, off his track, why should he not ease his overwrought mind by sleep, that sweetest of all consolers? The next morning they arrived in Memphis. The storm had passed away, but had left mementoes in the fresh and balmy air and in the muddy streets. Maroney stopped at the Gayosa House. Roch found it an easy matter to move his baggage, and walked off with his hands in his pockets, wondering where he could get a clean shirt. He put up at a saloon where he could keep an eye on Maroney, and having bought some new shirts and a second-hand satchel, he felt once more that he was a respectable man. From Memphis Roch wrote to me, informing me "that all was well; that Maroney seemed perfectly at ease and confident that if any one had followed him, he had, by his retrograde movement, thrown him entirely off the scent." He had not the slightest idea what would be Maroney's next move, but was certain he could keep track of him. Maroney appeared familiar with Memphis, but had no friends there, and amused himself loitering around, occasionally going into a saloon. The second day of his stay Roch observed him write and post a letter. Then he visited the livery stables, admired some of the fine horses and afterwards strolled down to the wharf, where the steamer "John Walsh" was being loaded with cotton and tobacco. He went on board and looked over the Walsh, saw the clerk and entered into conversation with him. Roch heard the clerk say that the steamer would leave in about two hours, and concluded that Maroney was going down the river on her. Maroney returned to the Gayosa House and paid his bill, which caused Roch to hurry to his boarding-house, pay his bill, and with his newly acquired treasure, the old satchel, hasten to the river and take a steerage passage to New Orleans on the John Walsh. He was a little afraid that Maroney might begin to notice him and found it necessary to use the utmost caution. Before embarking on the Walsh he laid in a stock of "bolognas," a few pounds of the rankest "Sweitzer kase" and an abundance of "pretzels." Coming down to the boat some time before Maroney, he filled his pipe and took a seat where he could watch all that went on. After some time Maroney drove up in a carriage, had his trunk carried up to his state-room, and, lighting his cigar, took a seat and watched the movements of the crew who were employed in taking on the cargo. It was a busy scene: the negroes toiled along under the burning sun, lightening their labors with a merry boatman's song. Their burdens were heavy, but their hearts were light. Maroney, instead of looking down on them with the contempt he did, should have longed for their content and happiness. The meanest of them possessed what he never could possess--"a contented mind." In less than half an hour the steamer's bell was rung, friends hurriedly bade each other good-bye, the gang-planks were hauled in, and the John Walsh was soon snorting down the river. The decks and cabins of the Walsh were crowded with passengers; ladies handsomely dressed, planters going to New Orleans on business or pleasure; tourists making a trip down the Mississippi for the first time, and being charmed with the variety of the scenes around them: all was life, gaiety and animation. Although Maroney would have generally mingled with the passengers, "the gayest of the gay," he now kept entirely aloof from them. He was oppressed by the "weight of his secret," and sought "by solitary musings" to ease his mind. He read a little, glanced at the scenery along the river, landed and walked around at the different places where the steamer stopped, but kept entirely to himself. _CHAPTER VIII._ Nothing occurred worthy of note until they arrived at Natchez, but here Roch was much amazed to see Maroney's trunk being put on the wharf-boat. He knew it was the custom of the managers of the wharf-boats to allow baggage to be left on the wharf, and to collect a small sum for storage; so he took his satchel and placed it near Maroney's trunk. He left the boat just in time to see Maroney take the only carriage that happened to be at the river when the steamer arrived, and drive rapidly up the hill. He knew that he could get plenty of carriages in a few minutes, but by that time where would Maroney be? His only sure method was to follow him at once, and trust to finding a conveyance on the hill. He followed as fast as he could, and just as he got to the top of the hill was fortunate enough to meet a negro driving an express wagon. He immediately struck a bargain with him to drive him around town for a dollar an hour. Roch, in his excitement had dropped his German accent, and spoke uncommonly good English for an immigrant; but the negro, being a very good talker himself, did not remark it. By Roch's direction the driver followed on straight up the street in the same direction Maroney had taken. Maroney got out of the carriage and went into a store. It would not do for Roch to wait on the express wagon for Maroney's reappearance. He, therefore, instructed his driver to await his return, and stepped into a store, from which, while he was examining some goods, he could also keep an eye on Maroney's carriage. What Maroney was doing in the store, was a problem which Roch would have liked to solve. In about fifteen minutes Maroney came out, and appearing familiar with the town, directed his driver where to take him. He was driven to a comfortable looking house; the negro driver saying something to him, and motioning toward it. Maroney answered, and the hackman drove away, while Maroney went into the house. Roch was now at a loss what steps to take. The hack driver had not been paid, and in all probability would return for Maroney. If he watched the house, he might be discovered from behind the blinds; so he determined to keep his eye on the hack driver. The hackman drove leisurely down to a saloon, fastened his horses, and went in. Roch opened conversation with his driver, and found that he was a slave, but that he had got permission from his master to hire himself out, for which privilege he paid one hundred dollars a month. After working for some time he had been enabled to purchase the horse and wagon he drove, and as he was making money, hoped in a few years to have enough to purchase his own freedom. Roch concluded he could gain from him some information as to Maroney's driver, so he carelessly asked him if the hack driver was also hired out. "Yes, sah, him ib my cousin," said Sambo. Roch supposed the negro must have had his _quasi_ freedom, from seeing him go into a saloon, as the planters never allow their slaves to go into drinking-places; not because they think it immoral, but because the slaves would most likely become unfit for work. Roch asked the negro if he knew where they kept good brandy. "Golly, ib you want good licker, dis yer sloon is de place to find it!" "Drive up, and we will sample some of it," ordered Roch. Sambo willingly obeyed, and they went into the saloon. Roch again assumed his German accent. The two negroes at once recognized each other, and Roch, in his broken way, said: "Vel, poys, vat vill you haf?" The niggers grinned from ear to ear, and replied: "De same ab you, boss." "Barkeeper, you haf any lager got? Nein? Och, mine Got, dis ish von h--l of a blace! Notting put prandy und vhisky! I pelieves I vill go by Yarmany the steamer next. Vell, give us dree prandys! Trink hearty, poys. Mine frient," continued he, turning to the hackman, "your peesness ish goot? No?" "Yes, sah! I always dribes the gemmen what comes on de steamer. Ya, ha! Dey nearly all goes to de same place. Dis mornin' a gemmen come on de steamer, an' say, 'Here, you nigga, dribe me as fas' as you can to Mudder Bink's.' I'se yer man, says I; an' golly, didn't I make dose hosses trabel! I was gwine like de debil when he stop me, an' went to de store. Den I took him to Madam's, and he say, 'Here, Sambo, you jus' go down town, an' come fur me in two hours;' an' I's gwine back, an' if dis yer nigga don't get a fiver for his trouble, den dis court don't know itself!" "Mudder Beenk's?" exclaimed Roch. "Who vas das?" "Yah, yah, yah," roared both the darkies. "You don' know Mudder Binks! Why, she keeps de finest gals on all de ribber." [Illustration: _"Yah, yah, yah," roared both the darkies, "you don't know Mudder Binks! why she keeps the finest gals on all de ribber."_--Page 69.] Roch was happy when he heard this, as he was now positive that Maroney was not taking any action to cover up the robbery; so he settled with the expressman, and returned to the wharf-boat to look after Maroney's trunk. He saw that the trunk was still where it had been left, and on going on board of the steamer, found that most of the passengers had taken advantage of their long stay, and were visiting in the town. Roch took a seat on the wharf-boat, near the office. He puffed away at his pipe for some time, staring vacantly around, when he heard a carriage rattling down the hill. In a moment it stopped, and looking up Roch saw Maroney almost leaning over him and conversing with a gentleman in the office. "Are you the agent of Jones's Express?" he asked. "Yes," replied the gentleman. "I thought your office was up the hill. Have you received a package for --------?" (Roch did not catch the name.) The gentleman looked over his book, and said: "No, nothing; but it may have been detained in the New Orleans office." This was the substance of the conversation. Maroney went into the office and remained some five minutes, then came out, and seemed debating some subject in his mind. The first bell of the Walsh was rung. He hurriedly ordered his trunk on board, and embarked, closely followed by Roch, "mit his satchel." They proceeded quietly on their journey until they reached New Orleans, where Maroney secured a hack and was driven to the City Hotel. He passed the day walking around, lost in thought, and studying some subject deeply. During the day Roch concluded that Maroney was going to make a decided move. But what would it be? He had no one to advise him; none from whom he could seek counsel, and he was at a loss what to do. In this strait he telegraphed to me, in Chicago, detailing his predicament, and asking instructions. He was much surprised at receiving an answer from Philadelphia, where I then was. I telegraphed him in cipher, congratulating him on his success so far, and told him not to mind the loss of his baggage; but to change his disguise, and rig himself up as a dashing Southerner. Accordingly, the first thing in the morning, he took a bath, had had his face clean shaven, and, going to the clothing and other furnishing stores, soon procured a fashionable outfit. When he was dressed in his new clothes, what a metamorphosis had he made, from the clod-hopping Dutchman to the gay, genteel and courteous citizen! I telegraphed to him that I thought success was almost in his grasp, and to keep a constant lookout. He took a room in the City Hotel, and was very much pleased, on coming into the breakfast room, to find Maroney there. He had to look twice before he was certain of his man, as Maroney had also changed his appearance. He had donned a suit of city clothes, had changed the cut of his whiskers, had had his hair cut short, and had altered his entire appearance. Now commenced the chase in earnest. Maroney walked around the hotel, with his hands in his pockets, occasionally glancing out of the window. Finally he went out on the street and walked rapidly around. He would walk hurriedly up one street, cut across, and come down another, and then pass to the point from which he started, always retracing his steps, and doubling on his track. The thought at once flashed through Roch's mind that he was endeavoring to discover if he was followed; and, seeing through his movements, Roch took up his position at the base of operations, and, as Maroney started up one street, he waited quietly on the corner, and always found that Maroney would come around past him in a short time. Maroney spent the whole morning at these manoeuvres, trying to discover if he was followed, Roch having much the advantage of him, in being able to keep watch of him by walking only a fourth of the distance. I kept the telegraph working, and Roch would take advantage of Maroney's doublings on his track, to rush to the telegraph office, send a despatch to me, and, in a short time, rush back for the answer. I informed him that I did not believe that Maroney had any suspicions of him, but was keeping a sharp lookout for any of the employés of the Adams Express Company who might know him, and who were numerous in New Orleans. He knew the New Orleans detectives who had been employed on the ten thousand dollar robbery, and had everything to fear from them. He might run across the General Superintendent of the Southern Division at any moment, and wished to avoid him if possible. I impressed on Roch the necessity of the strictest watch. I must confess that I felt feverish and excited at having Roch all by himself watching the movements of Maroney, in a place of the size of New Orleans, and if it had been possible I should have placed more men around him; but that was now out of the question, and all I could do was to rely on Roch. I communicated all the facts, as I received them, to the Vice-President, who was with me. In the afternoon Maroney strolled down the street and turned into the Adams Express office. Roch knew no one in the office, and, as this last move of Maroney's greatly puzzled him, he telegraphed to me for instructions. I consulted with the Vice-President, and replied: "Trust no one. Rely on yourself alone." Roch got the answer in about an hour, during which time Maroney remained in the Express office. On leaving the Express office, he went to a daguerrean gallery, remained some time, and then went to the hotel. On Saturday Maroney again went to the daguerrean gallery and received a package, which Roch supposed contained his pictures. He telegraphed me to this effect, and, on a moment's consideration of the incident, I ordered him to procure a copy of the picture from the gallery if he possibly could. From the gallery Maroney proceeded to the amphitheatre of Spaulding & Rogers, on St. Charles street, and Roch, feeling certain that he would remain at least an hour, went to the telegraph office, sent the above despatch, and as soon as he received the answer, went directly to the daguerrean gallery. He was now the dashing Southerner, and as he gaily entered the gallery, twirling his handsome cane, he was welcomed by a pleasant smile from a young lady, an octoroon, who was the only occupant of the room. Although of negro extraction, it was scarcely discernable, and moreover she was possessed of most engaging manners. Roch entered into conversation with her, in the course of which he asked if his friend who called up the day before, and whom he described, did not have his picture taken. She said he did, and that she had one left, which was not a very good one. Roch asked leave to look at it, and she hunted it up and handed it to him. He immediately recognized it, and giving her a five dollar bill, became its owner. So much for brass. Thanking the lady, and also thanking his stars that the proprietor of the gallery was out when he called, he returned to the amphitheatre. Maroney came out and went to the hotel, where they both took dinner. After dinner Maroney walked up and down the reception room, pondering deeply over some subject, and then took some paper and a pencil from his pocket. Roch watched him closely as he seated himself to write, and concluded that he was trying to disguise his hand-writing. Maroney finished and folded the note, and taking his hat, walked out on the street. As soon as he reached the sidewalk, he began to limp badly, as though it was almost impossible for him to get along. "Strange," thought Roch, "he cannot have met with an accident!" In a short time a colored boy came along. Maroney stopped him, talked to him a moment, then gave him the note and the boy ran off, while he remained in the same place. [Illustration: "_As he gaily entered the gallery twirling his handsome cane, he was welcomed by a pleasant smile from a young lady, an octoroon._"--Page 73.] What would Roch now not have given to have been able to cut himself in two, leaving one part of himself to watch Maroney while the other followed the boy? This, however, being one of the few things that he could _not_ do, he was obliged to let the boy go while he watched Maroney. The affair seemed to have come to the sticking point. Maroney's face showed deep anxiety, and his limping was all a sham. The boy had taken a note to some place, but where, was the question. In about twenty minutes the boy returned and said something to Maroney, but what it was Roch could not find out. Maroney handed the boy some money and he immediately ran off, while the former dropped his limp, walked to the hotel, and went at once to his room. _CHAPTER IX._ Roch walked carelessly past the door of Maroney's room and saw him busily engrossed in packing up. He lost no time. Where Maroney was going he did not know. He rushed to the office, paid his bill, went to his room, changed his clothes, and in less than ten minutes issued from the hotel, again the plodding Dutchman. Aladdin with his wonderful lamp, could not have brought about a much more rapid transformation. As he reached the sidewalk, Maroney had just stepped into a hack, and he heard him order the driver to get to the steamboat landing as soon as possible. Roch, with his long pipe and old satchel, followed on behind, and the citizens he met gazed in wonder to see a sleepy Dutchman travel at such a rate. The "Mary Morrison," one of the fast boats of the river, was just casting off from the wharf as they arrived, and they had barely time to get on board. Roch had taken up his old quarters in the steerage, and thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful view as they steamed up past the famous Crescent City. He had now time to wipe the sweat from his brow, and wonder what place Maroney was going to. He concluded that he was going back to Montgomery by way of Memphis. True, it was rather an out of the way route, but such seemed to be the sort that Maroney preferred. He could not tell to what point Maroney would pay his fare, but as Memphis seemed to be the objective point, he took a through second class ticket to that place. The first one hundred and fifty miles of the journey up the river is though the richest and most beautiful part of Louisiana. This part of the river is known as the coast, and is lined on both sides by waving fields of cane, interspersed with orange groves. Alligators lie basking in the sun, and the whole scene speaks of the tropics. Beautiful as was the country, it had no charms for Maroney. His mind was occupied with other thoughts, and he paced up and down the deck as if anxious to get to the end of his journey. All went quietly until they reached Natchez, "under the hill," when Roch was again astonished to see Maroney's trunk being placed on the wharf boat. He could not understand this move, but had nothing to do but to follow. Maroney loitered around the wharf-boat, seeming to have no business to attend to, but when the Morrison steamed up the river, he advanced to the agent of Jones' Express, had a brief conversation with him, paid him some money, and an old trunk was delivered to him. Maroney did not seem to place any value on the trunk, and had it put carelessly along with his other baggage. Strange indeed, thought Roch, what can he want with that old trunk? It was an old box, painted black, and thickly studded with nails. It was a shaky looking affair, and did not look as if it would stand much of a chance with a modern "baggage smasher." It had some old tags pasted on it, which showed where it had been. One which was partly scraped off, read Montgomery, another Galveston, and still another New Orleans. There was nothing to show that it was of any consequence, and Roch looked carelessly at it, as Maroney had left it carelessly on the wharf-boat, along with his other trunk, and sauntered up the hill. Maroney put up at the hotel, still leaving his baggage in charge of the agent of Jones's Express,--who was also proprietor of the wharf-boat. Roch followed Maroney up town, but, as he did not know when the boats arrived going up or down the river, and as it began to grow dark, he concluded he had better stay on the wharf-boat and keep track of the luggage. Maroney might leave at any hour of the night, as, on the Mississippi it is not an uncommon occurrence for an unexpected boat to land or take off passengers with little or no delay, even at the dead of night. So he got some lunch, and lay around the wharf-boat, as many poor people do while travelling. Maroney did not come down during the night, but Roch felt perfectly easy, so long as he kept the trunks in view. In the morning a steamer came along, bound down the river. Maroney made his appearance, but paid no attention to the poor immigrant, whom he considered beneath his notice. He had his trunks placed on board, and took passage for New Orleans. Roch was all amazement, and could not understand why such a chase should have been made after an old trunk. He was inclined to think that Maroney must have had some business with the store-keeper in Natchez, but what sort of business he could not determine. He was sure something had been done in New Orleans or at Natchez. It might have been with the _ladies_ on the hill, or with the negro and the lame foot. Whatever it was, it was completely covered up. He managed to telegraph these particulars to me, at one of the places where the steamer stopped, and I instructed him to keep right on, and that I would answer more fully in time. On arriving in New Orleans, Maroney again put up at the City Hotel, while Roch went to a neighboring restaurant, to get some refreshments, intending afterwards to change his clothes, and make his appearance as the dashing Southerner. He had just finished his meal, when, on looking over to the City Hotel, he saw Maroney getting into a carriage, on which his two trunks were already placed. He rushed out as Maroney drove off in the direction of the depot where passengers take the cars for Pontchartrain, and then go by steamer to Mobile. He had to make quick time again, and was fortunate enough to secure the services of a negro drayman who had a fast horse. With this assistance he got to the station "on time," and, securing a second-class ticket to Mobile, was soon away on another route. After reaching Pontchartrain, and embarking on the steamer, Maroney seemed happier than he had yet been, and walked around the deck, singing and whistling, apparently overflowing with good spirits. As his spirits rose, Roch's fell in a corresponding degree. He was unable to understand the cause of this change; everything seemed confused to him, and he did not know what to do. He finally concluded that Maroney had left Montgomery, going to Atlanta, Chattanooga, Nashville, Memphis, etc., merely to see if he would be followed, and now, finding he had not been, he was returning home in a perfectly easy frame of mind. So much at least had been done. Roch knew that all his actions had met with my approval. I was the responsible party, and if I was satisfied, he was. In the meantime, I was unable to form a definite opinion as to the reason for the change which had evidently taken place in Maroney. There was no denying but that something had happened to give him more courage, and it flashed through my mind: Has he got the money? I thought nothing about the old trunk, as, if he had had anything valuable in it, he would not have left it so carelessly exposed, at the stations, on the wharf-boat, etc. All I could do was to carry out my old plan: "Watch and wait." Roch, on the journey to Mobile, took a seat on this identical trunk; he saw nothing suspicious about the old thing, which was not even locked, but tied up with ropes. Had it entered his mind that the trunk contained the money he was after, the battle would have been a short one. But he knew nothing, positively nothing, which would lead him to suppose that this was the case; so he had nothing to do but to wait, and wait he did. On Saturday, the thirtieth day of April, the steamer arrived at Mobile, and the passengers speedily disembarked. At three in the afternoon a steamer started up the Alabama river, for Montgomery, and on this boat Maroney took passage. Among the passengers going to Montgomery were a number of his friends. There were many ladies among them, and he was well received by all of them. He took no notice of his baggage, and his trunks lay carelessly amidst a pile of luggage. On board all was life and hilarity. Fun and frolic were the order of the day. There were several horse fanciers on board, with whom he was acquainted, and he got into a conversation with them, his spirits rising higher and higher still. When the boat touched at Montgomery he sprang ashore, where he was welcomed by a crowd of his friends, and gave orders to Porter to have his trunks taken up to the hotel. Porter, during his absence, had been appointed clerk of the Exchange. He was on the wharf when Maroney arrived, and shook hands with him. He told him he was now at the Exchange; that it was the best house in town, and that Mr. Floyd would be glad to welcome him as a guest. Maroney was pleased to hear this, and told Porter that when his trunks came up to the house he would give him some splendid cigars to try--some that he had bought on his trip. Porter saw Roch, but dared not speak to him. Roch seeing Maroney placed under the espionage of Porter, proceeded to his Dutch boarding-house and gave himself a thorough cleansing. Porter had a carriage at the wharf, which Maroney and he entered, and drove up to Patterson's. They took a few drinks and then went over to the Exchange, where they arrived just as Maroney's trunks came up. He directed Porter to send the large trunk to his room, but to place the old one in the baggage room, and to mark it plainly with his name, so that no one would take it by mistake. In the evening Maroney and Porter stepped over to Patterson's and there met Charlie May, a wealthy harness-maker and a very prominent man. He was one of Maroney's best friends and was so convinced of his innocence of the crime he was charged with committing that he had gone on his bail-bond. They went into a private room and had a social chat, interspersed with an occasional drink. Several of Maroney's friends came in and joined the party. Maroney spoke of the splendid cigars he had bought on his journey, and told the assembled company that when he opened his trunk he would give them a chance to prove their quality. All went pleasantly with him, and Porter was unable to notice any change, with the exception that he was perhaps a little livelier than before. He recounted the incidents of his journey, the routes he had taken, the places where he had stopped, etc., and Porter found it varied little from the truth. He alluded to the girls he had visited in Chattanooga, said the stock was splendid, described the situation of the house and advised them to pay it a visit if they ever went to the town. He spoke of the fine horses he had seen at Cook's livery stable and of Cook's being a fine fellow. He also spoke of inspecting the live stock in the stables at Nashville and at the pleasant dwelling at Natchez, on the hill, and wound up by declaring he had had a splendid time, and ordering in Champagne for all the party. In the morning, after breakfast, he told Porter to have the old trunk sent up to his room and he would get the cigars he had spoken about. Porter ordered the colored boy to bring the trunk up, and at Maroney's request went to the room with him to assist in the opening. When the trunk was brought up the negro and Porter took off the ropes and Maroney carelessly opened it. There were four boxes of cigars in it. Maroney opened one of them, took a handful of cigars from it, gave a number of them to Porter to try, and when Porter had lit one, said: "What do you think of that? don't you call that a splendid cigar?" Porter admitted it was an unusually fine-flavored weed. Maroney then put some, from each of the boxes, into his pockets, and said he was going to drive out with "Yankee Mary." Porter having no good excuse for remaining longer, returned to the office, whence he was soon recalled by Maroney, who requested him to have the trunk roped up and placed in the garret, where unclaimed baggage was usually stored. While this was being done, Porter observed the four cigar boxes lying carelessly on the bureau. Shortly after he saw Maroney and Charlie May pass rapidly up the street behind "Yankee Mary." _CHAPTER X._ We will now return to the North, where we left Mrs. Maroney enjoying herself as the guest of Mr. Moore. Green shadowed her closely, and she did not make a move that was not reported to me. I thought it best to see Mrs. Maroney myself while she was North, and proceeded to Philadelphia for that purpose, bringing George H. Bangs, my General Superintendent, with me. I had concluded to give Mr. Bangs full charge of all the operatives employed in the case. He was to keep fully informed of all the movements of Maroney and his wife, receive daily reports from all the operatives, then daily report to me, and I would direct him how to proceed, and he would transmit the orders to the operatives. I had many other cases under way, and could not devote all my time to this one. Bangs was to remain in Philadelphia, where all the operatives would send their reports. He was a young man of great abilities; he had been promoted from the ranks, and I had full confidence in his capacity. He was cautious--sometimes a little too much so, or more so than I would be, but still with firmness enough to carry him through all emergencies. The reader knows that I was determined to win. The Adams Express Company had furnished me with all the backing I wanted, and under such favorable auspices, I said, "Win, I must! Win, I shall!" I did not doubt that Maroney was the thief. The question now was How can I find the money? Philadelphia, at that time, was where the main offices of the Adams Express were located, and the Vice-President was in charge. I held a consultation with him, and he advised us to remain in Philadelphia and see Mrs. Maroney; and while the interview was progressing, a dispatch came to me, from Green, stating that Mrs. Maroney had left New York for that place. We were all anxious to see her, but I concluded to send Bangs alone to the station, as different persons had seen us with the Vice-President, and it might excite comment if we all went. The train arrived in Camden, opposite to Philadelphia, at eight o'clock in the evening, and Bangs, who was waiting, had Green point Mrs. Maroney out to him. He got a good look at her as Flora and she stepped into a carriage. She was a medium sized, rather slender brunette, with black flashing eyes, black hair, thin lips, and a rather voluptuously formed bust. Bangs and Green followed her to the Washington House, on Chestnut street, above Eighth, where she and Flora went into the reception room. She sent for the landlord, who assigned them a suite of rooms, and they retired. It will be remembered that Maroney was observed to post a letter while in Memphis. Roch managed to see the address as it lay on the rack in the hotel, and found it directed to Mrs. M. Cox, Jenkintown, Montgomery County, Penn. When I arrived in Philadelphia, I concluded it would be a good plan to find out who Mrs. M. Cox was, and accordingly detailed Mr. Fox to procure the information. "His orders were: Go slow; be careful; be sure not to excite any suspicion." Mr. Fox had been a watch and clock maker, and was a thorough hand at his trade. I provided him with a carpet-sack and the necessary tools, and also a few silver watches, of no great value, which I purchased at a pawn broker's. Thus equipped as an itinerant clock repairer, and having a few watches to "dicker" with, he started on foot for Jenkintown, a small place twelve miles from Philadelphia. He sauntered slowly along with his satchel over his shoulder, going into a farmhouse occasionally, and finally reached Jenkintown. Here he passed from house to house, enquiring if they had any clocks that needed repairing. As he was a good hand, and his charges most reasonable, only twenty-five or fifty cents for each clock, he soon had doctored several. He was of a talkative nature, and drew from the old gossips whom he encountered on his rounds, full descriptions of the members of different families who lived in or around Jenkintown; and there is no doubt but that he was much better posted as to their business and weaknesses than they were themselves. Toward evening, having done a good day's work, he went to the tavern, kept by a man named Stemples, and made arrangements to stop with him while in town. He found that a man named Cox lived in Jenkintown, and that he was a carpenter by trade. During the evening he was much surprised to meet Cox at the tavern. Fox was a genial fellow, and, after a paying day's work always made himself agreeable to those whom he met at the tavern where he put up. He had the knack of getting easily acquainted, and soon was on the best of terms with Cox and his friends. He did not force the acquaintance, but during the evening paid much more attention to Cox's friends than to Cox. Fox went through about the same routine the next day, and toward evening, finding that he had made a dollar and a half, he packed up his tools and went up to the tavern. Here he found Cox and his friends again. He told them how successful he had been, and received their hearty congratulations--they feeling that there was no doubt but that they would be gainers by his good fortune. Cox and his friends joined in having a good time at the tinker's expense, and pronounced him the "prince of good fellows;" though I much fear, had Fox suddenly importuned them for a small loan, they would have changed their tune; but as he did not, "all went merry as a marriage bell." [Illustration: _Cox and his friends joined in having a good time at the tinker's expense, and pronounced him "the prince of good fellows."_--Page 86.] Cox had two bosom friends--Horton and Barclay. They were held together by ties stronger than those which bind kindred--they were fellow-topers, and could drink about equally deep. They generally concluded an evening's entertainment in somewhat the following manner: Cox would say, "Hic, Barclay, you'r drunk; better go home, hic." Barclay would insist that he was never more sober in his life, but that Horton and Cox were "pos-(hic)-tively-(hic)-beasley." All three would then start off, bent on seeing one another safely home, and, like the blind leading the blind, generally fall into the ditch. Three irate women would then make their appearance on the scene, and they would each be led home, declaring they were never more sober in their lives. Fox found that Cox was known by his friends as Josh. Cox, and he was what might be called a lazy loafer, as were also his friends, Horton and Barclay. Fox did not try to get any information from Cox, but got all he possibly could from his friends, Horton and Barclay, who proved easy talkers and kept nothing back. He now concluded it was a good time to find out about Cox. He discovered in the course of the evening that Josh. had a clock that needed repairs but did not care to go to the expense of getting it fixed. So he said: "Josh., you are a pretty good sort of a man, and I'll tell you what I will do for you; I am not going to work in the morning, and so I will come down to your house in the course of the forenoon and fix up your clock for you and not charge you a cent for the job." Cox was so much pleased at this liberal offer that he took another drink at Fox's expense and went home highly delighted. In the morning Cox called for Fox, and again drinking at his expense, conducted him to his house and gave him the clock to repair. Fox now saw Mrs. Cox for the first time. She seemed a very civil woman and a great talker. She was of middle stature, with black hair and eyes, and dark complexion. When I received this description, I immediately said she must be a relative of Mrs. Maroney's, and so she eventually proved. In the course of the conversation Fox gleaned that Mrs. Cox had some relatives living in Philadelphia, which was nothing astonishing, and he got very little information from her. Cox was out of employment, but expected work soon; his house was commodious and very neatly kept, and Mrs. Cox seemed a good housekeeper. Having finished the repairs to the clock, Fox returned to the tavern, where he found Barclay and Horton, and soon had the glasses circulating. The pleasant liquor caused all the parties to grow familiar, and Fox was regaled with many a rare bit of scandal. He finally spoke of the Coxes from whom he had just returned, and was at once given their history so far as it was known in Jenkintown. The family had been in the town about four years, and had moved there from Morrisville, N. J. Josh. was not inclined to work, and just managed to scrape enough money together to live on. They had three children, and Mrs. Cox was a native of Philadelphia. Fox concluded, from all he saw and heard, that the people of Morrisville would be able to give him full information of the antecedents of the Coxes, and came into Philadelphia on the following day to get instructions. I was perfectly satisfied with what he had done so far, and on the next day sent him to Morrisville. Fox plied his trade in Morrisville with great success, and soon got acquainted with many of its inhabitants. His disguise was a splendid one to travel with, as at that time the clock-maker was welcomed everywhere, and while engaged at his work would amuse his patrons with thrilling stories of his adventures, or with the details of city life. In this way Fox got acquainted with many people who knew the Coxes when they were living at Morrisville, and they unanimously gave Josh. the character of a "ne'er do weel," although there was nothing against him but his laziness. Josh. had lived for three years in Morrisville, and but very little was known of his previous life. His wife was known as a hard-working woman, and that was all that could be learned about her. Fox discovered, incidentally, that Josh. had a brother living at Centreville, near Camden, in the State of New Jersey. After a while he got around there, travelling all the way by the wagon road, and occasionally repairing a clock on the way. It would not do while assuming his present character to travel by rail. On getting to Centreville he at once proceeded with his "dickering," being ready to either mend a clock or trade a watch. He found there was a Jim Cox in town who had a clock to fix, so he went to his house and got the job. He entered into conversation with Jim while engaged in repairing the clock, but found him a surly, uncommunicative, unsocial man, but Fox was a thoroughly good fellow and did not mind an occasional rebuff. So he took up the conversation, explained what was the matter with the clock, gave an interesting description on the works of clocks in general, and finally partially thawed Jim out. "By the by," said Fox, "I repaired a clock for a man of your name in Jenkintown; it was in a very bad condition, but I fixed it up as good as new; so I will this one. Do you know this Cox? they call him Josh. Cox. "Oh, yes!" laughed Jim, "he is a brother of mine!" "I am glad to hear it!" remarked Fox, "he is a mighty fine fellow! His wife is a very superior woman. Let me see, who was it her sister married down South? She has a sister there, hasn't she?" "Yes," said Jim. "Where?" enquired Fox, as he put a pin in the clock. "I don't remember the name of the place; used to know it. Her husband is agent for the Adams Express at--at--yes--Montgomery! that's it, Montgomery! Don't remember her husband's name." "You are like me in having a bad memory for names," said Fox, and then, having got the information he wanted, he turned the conversation to other subjects, all the time keeping busily engaged at his work. He made a first class job of the clock, so that no enquiries should be afterwards instituted, and collecting his bill, slowly wended his way to Camden. From Camden he crossed the river to Philadelphia and reported to me at the Merchants' Hotel. Bangs and I were seated in a private room when Fox came in. After hearing his report I turned to Bangs and said: "The plot thickens! Every day we are nearing success! We have the woman treed at last, and in the North, among our friends! Depend upon it we shall have the money ere long!" _CHAPTER XI._ On Saturday I removed to the Washington House, as Mrs. Maroney was still there. I found she did not go out much, seeming to prefer to remain in her room with Flora. Sunday morning I went to the breakfast room with the determination of seeing her, but although I waited and waited, she did not come, and I afterwards found that she had taken her breakfast in her room. I loitered about the house till after twelve, noon, at which time I was standing near the main entrance when I noticed a carriage drive up and stop. A gentleman alighted and walked into the hotel. In about twenty minutes Mrs. Maroney appeared escorted by the gentleman--a tall, handsome man, about forty-five years old--entered the carriage with him and was driven rapidly off, unaccompanied by Flora. I was completely nonplussed, as she was gone almost before I knew she was there. As it was mid-day and in the heart of the city, it would not do for me to run after them, as I would soon fall into the hands of the police by having the cry of stop thief raised after me. I felt very much like following and standing my chances, as at that time I was young and supple, but before I could come to a conclusion the carriage was whirled around the corner of Tenth street and lost to view. I loitered around for some time and then started towards my room. As I reached the head of the stairs, I saw a little girl playing in the hall, and, from the description I had received, concluded that she must be Flora. As she came past me I patted her gently on the head and calling her a sweet little girl, had a few seconds conversation with her. Glancing down the stair-way, I saw a lady looking out from the door of the reception room: "Oh, my dear!" said I, "there is your ma; she seems to be looking for you!" "That ain't my ma!" she answered. "My ma has gone for a drive with Mr. Hastenbrook!" "Oh, indeed! Where is she going?" "She's gone to Manayunk! You can't catch me!" And Flora, who was full of fun, darted down the hall. I had gained a point and I hurried to the Merchants' Hotel, saw Bangs, posted him, and started him off in a carriage for Manayunk to note the actions of Mrs. Maroney and her escort. Bangs soon had them under his eye and was enabled to get a good, full look at her escort, Mr. Hastenbrook. He found, afterwards, that Mr. Hastenbrook was the head of one of the largest shirt manufactories in the city. He carried on an extensive business with the South, and, outside of his business, was known as a great ladies' man. He was very gallant to Mrs. Maroney, and Bangs concluded, from their actions, that they also "loved not wisely." At five o'clock they returned and Hastenbrook took supper at the Washington House. At supper I had a good full view of them, but neither of them noticed me, as I was dressed in coarse, rough clothes--a common occurrence with me. She little thought how closely I held her fate in my hands. Mr. Hastenbrook remained in her room till after midnight, Flora having gone to bed long before he left. On Monday morning I left her in charge of Green and went to talk over matters with the General Superintendent. Suddenly Green burst in upon us and said that Mrs. Maroney and Flora had gone to the North Pennsylvania station. I was much annoyed at his having left her to report and ordered him to go as quickly as possible to the station. If she had gone he must follow her on the next train and get off at Jenkintown. I described Cox and his residence and told him to watch and see if he could not find her somewhere in the neighborhood. I told the Vice-President that I did not doubt but that Mrs. Maroney knew the particulars of the robbery, and I had some idea that she had the money with her. Jenkintown was a small place, where she felt she could hide securely, and remain covered up for an indefinite time. There, almost directly under our noses, the money might be concealed. I mentioned the necessity of having a "shadow" sent down to Jenkintown, to watch all her movements, and if she moved to follow her, as we must know all she did. I mentioned that it would be necessary to get into the good graces of the postmaster at Jenkintown, so that we could tell where all the letters she received were post marked, and to whom her letters were directed. In regard to Mr. Hastenbrook, I thought his attentions were those of a "free lover," but that if he was seen with her again I would have him watched. I drew the Vice-President's attention to the benefits which would result from putting a female detective on, to become acquainted with Mrs. Maroney at Jenkintown, as she would undoubtedly be the best one to draw her out. At that time I had in my employ, and at the head of my establishment, one of the greatest female detectives who ever carried a case to a successful conclusion. She had been in my employ for two years, and had worked up the cases given her in an astonishingly able manner, proving herself a woman of strong, clear discernment. As she takes a prominent part in bringing to light the facts which follow, and in clearing away the mystery that overhung the disappearance of the forty thousand dollars, a short description of her may not prove uninteresting. Two years prior to the time of which I am now writing, I was seated one afternoon in my private office, pondering deeply over some matters, and arranging various plans, when a lady was shown in. She was above the medium height, slender, graceful in her movements, and perfectly self-possessed in her manner. I invited her to take a seat, and then observed that her features, although not what would be called handsome, were of a decidedly intellectual cast. Her eyes were very attractive, being dark blue, and filled with fire. She had a broad, honest face, which would cause one in distress instinctively to select her as a confidante, in whom to confide in time of sorrow, or from whom to seek consolation. She seemed possessed of the masculine attributes of firmness and decision, but to have brought all her faculties under complete control. In a very pleasant tone she introduced herself as Mrs. Kate Warne, stating that she was a widow, and that she had come to inquire whether I would not employ her as a detective. At this time female detectives were unheard of. I told her it was not the custom to employ women as detectives, but asked her what she thought she could do. She replied that she could go and worm out secrets in many places to which it was impossible for male detectives to gain access. She had evidently given the matter much study, and gave many excellent reasons why she could be of service. I finally became convinced that it would be a good idea to employ her. True, it was the first experiment of the sort that had ever been tried; but we live in a progressive age, and in a progressive country. I therefore determined at least to try it, feeling that Mrs. Warne was a splendid subject with whom to begin. I told her to call the next day, and I would consider the matter, and inform her of my decision. The more I thought of it, the more convinced I became that the idea was a good one, and I determined to employ her. At the time appointed she called. I entered into an agreement with her, and soon after gave a case into her charge. She succeeded far beyond my utmost expectations, and I soon found her an invaluable acquisition to my force. The Vice-President placed such full reliance in me that I had no hesitation in giving him the above sketch of Kate Warne, and advising that she be sent to Jenkintown, accompanied by a young lady who should have no direct connection with the case, but simply act as Kate's companion and friend. I knew this would greatly increase the expenses, but, as he well knew, we were now dealing with an uncommonly smart man and woman, and in order to succeed, we must be sharp indeed! As I had previously said, when a person has a secret, he must find some one in whom to confide, and talk the subject over with him. In this case Maroney had evidently confided the secret of the robbery to his wife, and now, while they were apart, was the time to draw it out. What was wanted was a person who could ingratiate herself into the confidence of Mrs. Maroney, become her bosom friend, and so, eventually, be sure of learning the secret of her overwrought mind, by becoming her special confidante. I also suggested the propriety of placing a handsome, gentlemanly man at Jenkintown, who should be provided with a span of horses and a handsome carriage, and deport himself generally as a gentleman of leisure. His duties would be to get up a flirtation with Mrs. Maroney, prevail on her to drive out with him, and, if possible, entice her to quiet, little fish-suppers, where he could ply her with champagne, and, under its exhilarating influence, draw from her portions of her secret. A woman of Mrs. Maroney's stamp, while separated from her husband, would most likely desire gentlemen's company, and as she, like most of her class, would put up with none but the handsomest, it was necessary to select as fine a looking man to be her wooer as could be found. She seemed to have already provided herself with a lover, in the person of Hastenbrook, and it was necessary to get some one able to "cut him out." The company had a gentleman in their employ, named De Forest, whom I thought admirably adapted for this purpose, and if the Vice-President would allow me, I would assign to him the task of becoming Mrs. Maroney's lover. The instructions I would give him would be few and simple, and he need know nothing of the case, further than that he was to go to Jenkintown with a carriage and span of horses, make himself acquainted with Mrs. Maroney, and report daily all that took place. I had already given Mr. Bangs entire charge of the detectives employed in the case, so that he would remain in Philadelphia, while I would keep up a constant communication with him by telegraph and mail. The Vice-President coincided with me in all my plans, and said the Adams Express were going to let me have my own way, and that they had unbounded confidence in me. I felt that their placing such entire confidence in a young man like me was indeed flattering, and I was determined to prove to them that their confidence was not misplaced. Having made all necessary arrangements in Philadelphia, I left for Chicago to prepare Mrs. Warne and her friend for the case. De Forest was given the necessary instructions, and drove out to Jenkintown with his team. He was a man about thirty-five years old, five feet eleven inches in height, remarkably good looking, with long black hair, and full beard and mustache, and in Philadelphia he was known as a perfect "lady-killer." On getting into Jenkintown he put up at the tavern, and made arrangements to spend the summer. He then drove back to Philadelphia, reported to the Vice-President and Bangs, got his trunk, and drove back to Jenkintown. _CHAPTER XII._ De Forest loitered around Jenkintown, and found that a gentleman who owned beautifully laid out grounds allowed the public to frequent them at certain times, so long as they did no damage to the walks or the flowers. The garden was a charming place, and Mrs. Maroney and Flora would often pass the morning in strolling through it. De Forest discovered this, and made the grounds a place of constant resort. The first day or two, as he passed Mrs. Maroney and her daughter, he would politely raise his hat to them. Then he would meet Flora as she ran around the grounds, and by paying her little attentions, soon caused the mother's heart to warm toward him, and made the daughter the medium of forming the mother's acquaintance. At the end of three or four days Mrs. Maroney remarked to Mrs. Cox: "What a fine man Mr. De Forest is!" All worked well. When she went to Philadelphia, Green, who was shadowing her, entirely unknown to De Forest, found that she frequented a famous restaurant on Eighth street, where she met Mr. Hastenbrook. In the evening, on her return to Jenkintown, she always met De Forest and strolled around with him. What with the gallant Hastenbrook, with his splendid mustache, on the one hand, and the sentimental De Forest, with his long hair and full beard, on the other, she had her hands full, and felt that her lot was cast in pleasant places. We will leave her to enjoy herself, and turn our attention to Chicago. On my arrival, I selected Mr. Rivers as the best man to go to Jenkintown, and lie quietly in wait, keeping a sharp lookout on the movements of Mrs. Maroney. He was born and brought up in Philadelphia, and was well acquainted with it and the surrounding country. I gave him full, clear instructions as to the part he was to perform in this drama of real life, and he started the same day for Philadelphia, where he was to report to Mr. Bangs. I also saw Kate Warne, told her I wanted her to make a trip, and to get ready as soon as possible. She was also to get a Miss Johnson to be her companion. In the morning she came to me for instructions. I gave her a full history of the case, and of all the steps that had been taken up to the time; described Mr. and Mrs. Maroney, stated that I thought they were not married, and, so far as pomp and splash made fine society, they frequented it. I then said: "You remember Jules Imbert, of Bills of Exchange notoriety?" She answered, with a smile, that she remembered him well. "Then," said I, "you had better assume to be his wife. Mrs. Maroney will most likely wish to remain in retirement for some time. She will probably remain in Jenkintown all summer and spend the winter in Philadelphia. You know all about Jules Imbert's operations, so you will arrange for a permanent stay in Jenkintown, get acquainted with Mrs. Maroney, and when you get thoroughly familiar with her, make her your confidante, and to show her how implicitly you rely on her friendship, disclose to her that you are the wife of a noted forger, who is serving a term in the penitentiary. As confidence begets confidence, Mrs. Maroney will, most certainly, in time unbosom herself to you." I described the different persons engaged on the case: De Forest, the lover; Green, the "shadow," etc., and instructed her that not even De Forest was to know who she was or what her errand. In a few days handsome toilets were ready for Kate Warne--whom we will hereafter know as Madam Imbert--and Miss Johnson. As soon as possible I started for Philadelphia accompanied by the two ladies, and on arriving in the city took rooms in the Merchants' Hotel. Kate Warne felt sure she was going to win. She always felt so, and I never knew her to be beaten. Mr. Bangs reported that he had sent Rivers on to Jenkintown, where he obtained board in a private family. He pretended that he had a very sore arm, which prevented him from working and obliged him to go up to Philadelphia to get it dressed. As he was doing nothing he concluded he would live in Jenkintown, where board was much cheaper than in the city. Green had been ordered to Philadelphia to take charge of Mrs. Maroney when she came up to the city, or to follow her if she started on another trip. Madam Imbert and Miss Johnson drove out to Jenkintown and passed a couple of days at the tavern. They found that the rooms, though plain, were very neatly kept, and that the table was abundantly supplied with good, substantial food. Madam Imbert expressed herself well satisfied with the town, the purity of the air, and its beautiful drives and walks; and as her system had become rather debilitated by a long residence in the South, she thought she would spend the summer there and recuperate her failing health. She made an arrangement with the landlord to spend the summer at his house, drove into Philadelphia and reported to me. She had her baggage sent out, and the following day returned with Miss Johnson and they took up their abode in the tavern. The reader will observe that Jenkintown is having a large increase made to its population, principally of male and female detectives. Stemples, the landlord of the tavern, had seldom had so many distinguished guests, and visions of Jenkintown becoming a fashionable summer resort floated before him, and he felt that the day was not distant when his humble tavern would, in all likelihood, be turned into a huge caravansary, filled to overflowing with the élite of society. All went smoothly with De Forest and Mrs. Maroney in their love-making. Every day they met and strolled through the shaded walks of the garden. He lavished a great deal of tenderness on Flora, which he would gladly have bestowed on the mother, and Flora was no more charmed with him than was Mrs. Maroney. One day, as they strolled through the most secluded part of the grounds, De Forest, with a beating heart, presented a beautiful bouquet to her. Mrs. Maroney accepted it with a pleasant smile, held down her head a little and blushed most charmingly. De Forest was more than elated, he was fascinated. He met me in Philadelphia a day or two after and said with much feeling: "Why, Pinkerton, why _do_ you keep watch of such a woman? She is the most beautiful, most charming lady I ever encountered! By heavens! I am in love with her myself!" I advised him to be careful, as the woman might be very beautiful, but still be a serpent! I found he made a truly devoted lover, and so I had nothing to complain of in that respect. When Madam Imbert and Miss Johnson arrived at Stemples's, the inhabitants of Jenkintown were agog to know who they were and whence they came. They evidently belonged to a high class of society, and all sorts of stories were circulated about them. The taller of the two ladies was quiet, not given to conversing much, and was very kind and considerate with the servants at the hotel. De Forest had managed to scrape up a slight acquaintance with them at the breakfast table, and when Mrs. Maroney, who, like everyone else, had heard of their arrival, casually remarked that she wondered who they were, he was enabled to inform her that the tall lady was from the South and that her name was Madam Imbert. This was enough for Mrs. Maroney, she loved the South. Maroney was a Southerner, and her heart warmed toward any one from there, so she determined to avail herself of the first opportunity of getting an introduction to Madam Imbert. She entered into a dissertation on Maroney and his virtues; did not exactly say that he owned any negroes, but hinted that he would soon do so. She spoke of Maroney as a man who had plenty of money. De Forest turned the conversation from Maroney as soon as possible, for, to tell the truth, he was as much in love with her as was the gallant Hastenbrook, and "my husband" was a term that grated harshly on his ear. De Forest learned that she was going into Philadelphia on the following day, and determined to ask her to let him have the pleasure of driving her in. He had the proposition several times at his tongue's end, but held back from uttering it, for fear she should decline. At length he summoned up courage enough to disclose his wish. Mrs. Maroney had a habit of blushing. She blushed very sweetly, and accepted his kind offer with many thanks. De Forest was now all animation. He went to the tavern, had his buggy and set of harness cleaned and scoured till they were bright as new, and gave orders to the groom to bring up his horses in the morning without a hair out of place. When a lady and gentleman go out for a drive they like to be by themselves, and generally find a child somewhat _de trop_. De Forest sincerely hoped that Flora would not be brought along, but, oh! deceitful man, he expressed a wish to Mrs. Maroney that the darling child accompany them. Mrs. Maroney very much relieved him by deciding that Flora had better remain at home and amuse her auntie, who would be _so_ lonely without her! Bright and early in the morning De Forest was up, and in the stable, seeing that everything was just as it should be about his turn-out. He then dressed himself carefully, ate a hurried breakfast, put on a stylish driving coat, and, jumping into his buggy, drove down to Cox's. Mrs. Maroney looked perfectly bewitching as she appeared, dressed in a bright spring costume, and De Forest tingled in every vein, as he helped her into the carriage and took a seat beside her. He grasped the reins, and the handsome bays were off with a bound. What would have been Maroney's feelings if he could have seen his wife and her gay cavalier? It was a beautiful April morning; the breeze was fresh and exhilarating; the fields were clothed with verdure, and the trees loaded with buds. From every side the birds poured forth their song. It was the season of love, and who could be more completely "in season" than was De Forest? The roads were in splendid condition, and they bowled along rapidly, carrying on an animated conversation. When they arrived in Philadelphia, De Forest drove to Mitchell's restaurant, opposite Independence Hall, where Mrs. Maroney alighted, and he drove off to stable his horses, intending to return at once and order a hearty dinner. _CHAPTER XIII._ De Forest, after stabling his horses, proceeded to the Adams Express Office and reported his success to the Vice-President and Mr. Bangs. He was highly elated, and they laughed heartily to see how well the play worked. "By-the-by!" said De Forest, "I promised to go right back and meet her. Oh! I almost forgot! two ladies have lately arrived in Jenkintown; I think they are rich, at least the taller one is so reported. Her name is Madam Imbert, and she is from the South. They don't go out much; go to the gardens occasionally, and Mrs. Maroney is anxious to form their acquaintance; I think I will get thoroughly acquainted with them by-and-by." The Vice-President and Bangs paid no attention to this, knowing that Madam Imbert could take care of herself. They instructed De Forest to attend to his own business, let other people alone, and with this admonition sent him off. What was De Forest's astonishment on returning to the restaurant to find the _lady_ gone! He did not like it, but concluded the only thing he could do was to wait. There are plenty of loafers around "Independence Hall" at any time, day or night, so drinking a mint julep and lighting a cigar, he joined the throng. He fumed and fretted for over an hour and a half, when he saw Mrs. Maroney coming down the street, looking very warm. He met her and she excused herself by saying that she had called on a lady friend who lived on Spruce street, just above Twentieth, and finding her sick had been unable to get away; that she had walked back very fast and felt completely exhausted. De Forest felt very sorry, and tenderly said she must not over-exert herself. He then ordered dinner, which was served up regardless of cost, and which they washed down with a few bottles of champagne of the very best brand. They were soon the happiest of friends, and all thoughts of separation had vanished from De Forest's mind. It is strange what a difference there will sometimes be in reports. About two hours after De Forest made his report, Green came in and reported that according to orders he had "shadowed" De Forest and Mrs. Maroney when they drove into the city. De Forest had left Mrs. Maroney at Mitchell's and driven off while he remained and kept his eye upon her. She left Mitchell's, walked over to the Washington House and went into a room where she remained for over an hour and a half. She left the hotel with Mr. Hastenbrook, who politely bade her good-bye at the corner of Eighth street, while she went down to Mitchell's and met De Forest, poor De Forest! but, "where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." After dinner De Forest ordered up his horses, and the happy pair, rendered extremely sentimental by the mellowing influence of the wine, started on their homeward journey. They stopped at a wayside inn a few miles out of the city, had a mint julep, and then proceeded on their way home, both very happy, and De Forest decidedly _spooney_. Rivers had an easy time of it at Jenkintown. He got well in with Josh. Cox and his friends Horton and Barclay. In fact any one with a little money to spend on drinks could easily form their acquaintance. He became so thick with Josh. that Josh. would gladly have taken him into his house as a boarder had it not been for the fact that Mrs. Maroney and her daughter were boarding with him and had taken up all the spare room. Rivers did not become acquainted with Mrs. Maroney, as she was proud and arrogant, and would disdain to form the acquaintance of any low "white trash" like him. Whenever Mrs. Maroney went to Philadelphia he followed her and excused his frequent absences to Josh. by stating that he went up to get his arm dressed. That arm was indeed a very sore one, and his physician must have made a small fortune out of him alone. When Rivers found that Mrs. Maroney was going into town with her escort, he would go in on the train and get to the outskirts of the city in time to meet them as they drove in. She was generally accompanied by De Forest, who had become her constant attendant. After they reached the city they had to drive slowly, and so he could follow them with ease. De Forest had been ordered to always drive to Mitchell's when he came in with Mrs. Maroney, and Green was there ready to take charge of her when they arrived, relieving Rivers, who would return by the evening train to Jenkintown. Mrs. Maroney had a great desire to become acquainted with Madam Imbert and Miss Johnson. Madam Imbert appeared very sad, and it was currently reported that she had brought the lively Miss Johnson with her to console her and keep her in good spirits. The desired introduction was brought about by an accident. Mrs. Maroney was taking her accustomed stroll through the pleasure grounds, accompanied by De Forest and Flora. Flora, as usual, full of fun, was running far ahead of her, when she saw two ladies coming down a cross-path. As she turned her head to look at them, still running at full speed, she caught her foot in the grass borders of the walk and was thrown violently to the gravel pavement. The ladies, who proved to be Madam Imbert and Miss Johnson, rushed to her, and the Madam picked her up. Flora had scratched her hands badly, and Madam Imbert had partially bound them up before her mother and De Forest arrived. This led to an introduction, and Mrs. Maroney was not slow in following it up. The next day Madam Imbert received a call from Mrs. Maroney, who wished to more fully return her thanks for her kindness to her daughter. The acquaintance progressed slowly, Mrs. Maroney making all the advances. There was something about Madam Imbert that seemed to draw one toward her. Mrs. Maroney felt that the Madam was a better woman than she, and that it did her good to pass an hour in her company. As she became more familiar with her, she discovered that Madam Imbert received many letters through the post, and often found her crying over them. The Madam would put them hurriedly to one side, and greet her with a forced smile which showed the efforts she made to hide her grief. Mrs. Maroney deeply sympathized with her, as she compared her own gay and happy life, free from care, to Madam Imbert's, from which every ray of sunshine seemed to have been blotted out. On one of the trips which Mrs. Maroney made to Philadelphia with De Forest, Rivers, who had headed them off, as usual, at the outskirts of the town, and was following them in, was observed by De Forest. De Forest had seen the man with the sore arm just before they left Jenkintown, and he now noticed him following them from block to block. He had no idea that the man could be following Mrs. Maroney, and supposed he must be following him. The idea flashed into his mind that it must be some inquisitive boor, who was following him merely out of prurient curiosity to see how he conducted himself with Mrs. Maroney. He did not mention the matter to her, but as he saw the man still following him his anger overflowed, and he determined that when he left Mrs. Maroney at Mitchell's, he would find out what the fellow wanted with him. When he arrived at Mitchell's Mrs. Maroney went in, and he drove to the stables with the horses. Rivers met Green here, and turning Mrs. Maroney over to him, came to the office of the Adams Express and reported to Bangs. Bangs gave him his instructions and he went out of the office by the rear entrance. He saw De Forest in the alley, but as he had nothing to do with him, let him go. He went down Chestnut street, turned into Third, where the cars start from, and, as he had a few hours to spare, determined to see some of his old friends. He had been loafing around about an hour when one of the detectives of the city force stepped up to him, and, tapping him on the shoulder, said: "You are my prisoner." "What have I done to deserve arrest?" demanded Rivers, completely dumbfounded. "Never you mind that! you're my prisoner, and if you don't come along quietly, you'll pay for it!" was all the consolation he got from the detective. "But I haven't done anything," pleaded Rivers. "There, just shut up, now! I don't want any of your talk. I know my business, and you're my prisoner; so just you come along." Rivers, finding resistance useless, went with him. At the same time he saw De Forest looking on, and seeming to rather enjoy his predicament. As the detective was taking him up Chestnut street toward his headquarters, they passed the Adams Express Office. Bangs happened to step out at this moment, and was much amazed to see Rivers under arrest. They said nothing, but Rivers looked steadily at Bangs, and Bangs at him. Without a moment's reflection, Bangs rushed off to report the arrest of Rivers to me. I was holding a consultation with Madam Imbert and Miss Johnson, at the Merchants' Hotel. Everything was working well, and I felt particularly happy, when Bangs rushed in and dispelled my happiness by stating that Rivers had been arrested. At the news, my heart fairly jumped into my mouth. I had felt success almost within my grasp, and now my plans had fallen through entirely. The thought at once flashed through my mind that Hastenbrook was at the bottom of the trouble. He must be a friend of Maroney's in disguise. I left Madam Imbert and the rest of the party at the Merchants' and proceeded to the Adams Express Office, where I met the Vice-President. I informed him of Rivers's arrest, and my fears that Maroney had checkmated me. The Vice-President said that he thought he could entirely remove my fears; that De Forest had come in from Jenkintown with Mrs. Maroney, and had reported to him. He stated that he had fixed a fellow nicely. A fellow had been loafing around Jenkintown for three or four weeks. De Forest had observed him just before starting for the city, and when he reached the suburbs discovered him dogging his movements wherever he went. He drove to Mitchell's, and came over to report, and the impudent fellow still kept on his track. He thereupon went to the city detective's headquarters. The employés of the Adams Express were well known, so that he had no difficulty in getting a detective, and, walking out with him, he pointed out the man, and said he would like to have him arrested, as he had been following him all the morning. The detective kept watch of the man for over an hour, and then, finding that he continued to loaf around, arrested him on the charge of vagrancy and took him to the office, where he had him locked up until he could prefer charges against him. As may be easily imagined, I felt greatly relieved when I heard this. The ridiculousness of the whole transaction crossed my mind, and as the Vice-President equally appreciated the joke with me, it was some time before we could control our risibles sufficiently to make arrangements for the release of Rivers. I asked the Vice-President if he knew some lawyer whom he could get to volunteer his services in behalf of Rivers. He suggested one, and soon afterward a lawyer called at the detective's office and demanded the charge on which Rivers was held. He found that it was only a nominal one, and effected his release without any one's being the wiser as to his business. When De Forest returned to Jenkintown that evening, he was greatly surprised to find Rivers there, as large as life, and drinking with his friend Cox as if nothing had happened. De Forest could not tell how he got out, but supposed he must have been let off on paying a fine; all he knew was that the dirty loafer had completely spoiled his pleasure. We will now leave Jenkintown for a time, and return to Montgomery. _CHAPTER XIV._ Maroney passed the time very pleasantly. Mr. Floyd, of the Exchange, was on friendly terms with him, notwithstanding the little difficulty they had had in regard to Mrs. Maroney. He had no business to attend to and passed a good deal of time in the office of the hotel, talking with Porter and furnishing him with an abundant supply of good cigars. Porter was a thoroughly good fellow, and had an inexhaustible fund of stories and anecdotes, some of them rather "smutty," but they were just the sort that suited Maroney, so that they had become the thickest of friends. Sometimes Maroney would take a hand in a social game of euchre at Patterson's, at other times he would take Porter or May out for a drive behind "Yankee Mary," and as they drove along expatiate on her many good qualities. He seldom went into the express office, as, although he knew the employés well, he felt that when he called they kept a sharp lookout on his movements, and he did not appreciate such courtesy. He would occasionally go into the express car to see the messenger, and it was noticed that he always looked at the money pouch, though at the time nothing special was thought of it. He seemed never to tire of relating the incidents of his journey, and would raise a hearty laugh by the manner in which he would describe his adventures at Natchez, on the hill, or of his visit to the amphitheatre of his friends, Spaulding & Rogers, in New Orleans. He was, to all appearances, the happiest man in town. He often talked over with Porter, his plans for the future, saying that, after his trial, he intended to go into the livery stable business, and wanted Porter to become his clerk. There was very little talk about the robbery in Montgomery, and when any one would mention it to Maroney, he would say, "You will see how it will end by-and-by," and always intimated that he would sue the company for heavy damages after his vindication by trial. Very little was said about Mrs. Maroney. She had few friends, indeed, yet these few seemed to have warm feelings towards her; most of the ladies seemed pleased that she had gone, leaving Maroney still with them. Maroney passed a good deal of time in his lawyer's office and seemed to be making elaborate preparations for his trial. He would often walk out on the plank road towards the plantations, and Porter, by great exertions, found that he was attracted by a lovely girl who lived some three miles from the city. He never came into town with her; it would have been considered improper for her to receive the attentions of a married man, and a scandal would have been the inevitable result. There appeared to be nothing wrong between them, and Porter became convinced that it was a genuine love affair. The girl must have known she was doing wrong in permitting attentions from a married man; but Maroney was most enticing when he wished to be, and in this case loved the girl with what he thought a pure love, and easily overcame any scruple she might have in this regard. He was very friendly with Gus McGibony, the Montgomery detective, and was always willing to do him a favor. McGibony being the only _known_ detective at Montgomery, was considered a big man in his way. Maroney always treated him as such, played cards with him and called him up to take a drink when he treated. Gus always spoke in the highest terms of Maroney, and had evidently taken sides in the case, for, when he was asked his opinion in regard to the robbery, he would say that Maroney was bound to win. In this opinion he was supported by the whole community. Porter would sometimes talk over the case with Watts, Judd & Jackson, the legal advisers of the company. They were firmly of the opinion that Maroney had committed the robbery, yet still they must say that there was no proof by which he could be convicted when the case was brought for trial. Roch was having an easy time of it, for as long as Maroney remained in Montgomery he had nothing to do but smoke his pipe and drink lager. He was taking a good rest after his arduous labors "shadowing" Maroney on his lengthy tour. At least the duties would have been arduous to any one but Roch, who, however, rather enjoyed them, and longed to prepare for another chase. I knew that something decisive must soon be done, as the time set for Maroney's trial was rapidly approaching. We--the Adams Express and I--must move something. Maroney was evidently preparing for his defense, and all was resting quietly. As the reader well knows I had a sharp watch set on the operations at Jenkintown and on all that occurred in Montgomery. On the first of May, Maroney announced his intention of going North on a visit. He was with Porter at Patterson's at the time and seemed to have suddenly formed the resolution. He said he had consulted with his counsel and they had informed him that he might as well go if he wished, as there was nothing to detain him. He desired to see his wife and a few friends, and so had determined to make a short visit to the North. His old trunk, up in the garret of the hotel, amongst the unclaimed baggage, was never looked at. Every one knew it was Maroney's, and even the colored porter, who sometimes went up into the garret with Porter, to look up some article that had been sent for, would say: "Dat's Massa 'Roney's trunk." The day before Maroney started for the North he packed up everything he needed for his journey in his large trunk, and then said to Porter, who was assisting him: "Let's go up to my old trunk, I still have some cigars in it, and I think it would be well to get some of them to smoke on my journey." Porter sent for Tom, and they all three went into the garret. Tom unbound the trunk; Maroney took out some cigars and articles of wearing apparel, and, having it tied up again, returned to his room. No further notice was taken of the trunk by any one. To place me on my guard, Porter immediately telegraphed me, in cipher, of this intended move. The dispatch reached me in Chicago, and was indeed news to me. What he intended to do in the North I could not tell. I thought myself nearly blind in trying to solve the reasons of his movement, and in arranging plans for his reception in the North. What could we do? I was not a lawyer, but understood a good deal of the law, and felt that now was the time to work something in our favor. I soon made up my mind what course to pursue, and started the next day for Philadelphia, to lay my plans before the Vice-President personally; telegraphing Porter to get Roch ready to shadow Maroney. He was to retain his Dutch disguise, as it had done good service before, and had not been "spotted." I arrived safely in Philadelphia, and found that I had not much preceded Maroney. On the second of May, Maroney, having everything in readiness for his departure, went to the depot, accompanied by a great many friends, and took the train for the North. Roch had reached the depot before him, and had bought a through second-class ticket to Philadelphia, _via_ Baltimore. Nothing of any consequence took place until they reached Baltimore. Maroney came through the cars only twice, seeming to be confident that he was not followed. He took an occasional walk to stretch his legs, but kept quietly to himself the whole of the journey. At Baltimore Roch was met by Bangs and Green, who relieved him from duty when they got the "spot" on Maroney. They found Roch pretty well exhausted, as he had not slept on the journey, and had been obliged to sit in a very cramped position. On getting into Philadelphia, Maroney went to the Washington House, while Roch went to the Merchants' Hotel, where he immediately retired, and had a good long sleep. At Jenkintown all went quietly. Mrs. Maroney was well loved by De Forest, well "shadowed" by Rivers and Green, and greatly benefited by the pure society of Madam Imbert. She said to Madam Imbert, a few days before the arrival of Maroney: "I am happy to state that my husband will be with me in a few days. I am _so_ delighted at the prospect of meeting him once more, as he has been separated from me a great deal. We shall have a splendid time in Philadelphia and New York; perhaps spend the summer in Jenkintown, and then go South, _via_ Cincinnati and Louisville; passing through Kentucky and Tennessee, into Alabama, and stopping at all the cities on the way." On the fifth of May she packed up her trunks, and Flora and she were driven to the Jenkintown station. De Forest offered to take them into the city in his buggy, but the offer was declined, with thanks, and they left for Philadelphia without escort. At Philadelphia she called a carriage, and, with Flora, was driven to the Washington House. In a short time Maroney arrived, entered his name on the register, and was shown to his wife's room, and the two after an eventful separation, were thus once more united. Having no need of Rivers's services at Jenkintown, he was called to Philadelphia, to "shadow" the parties there. Madam Imbert and Miss Johnson of course remained. On the sixth of May, Maroney mailed a letter, which the "shadow" discovered was directed to "William M. Carter, Locksmith, William st., N. Y." A note was taken of this, and as soon as possible Bangs left for New York, to interview Mr. Carter. He found that Carter was one of the best locksmiths in the city, and inclined to be a good fellow. Bangs, representing the New York office of the Adams Express, gave him some jobs, making keys, etc.; and finally brought him a key to the lock of the pouch used by the company, and asked him to make two just like it. Carter said he could make them, and after examining the key for some time, said: "But stop a little; a friend of mine, now in Philadelphia, sent me a draft of a key he wanted made, and it is almost exactly like this!" Producing the draft, he exclaimed, "it is exactly the same!" He handed it to Bangs, who found it a finely executed drawing of the pouch key, made by Maroney. Bangs paid no attention to this circumstance, but Carter said he would not make the key, as he did not know to what use it might be put. He would return the draft to his friend and say he could not make it. Bangs managed to get a copy of the draft before it was returned. On discovering this, I saw through Maroney's plan at once; he wished to have a key made similar to the pouch key, and introduce it as evidence in his trial that others than the agents might have keys to the Company's pouches. Two days before Maroney met his wife in Philadelphia, I held a consultation with the Vice-President and Bangs in the office of the Express Co. I maintained that it was the Company's duty to arrest Maroney. They had a right to bring suit against an agent of theirs wherever found. I urged him to lay the matter before the Company's counsel in Philadelphia. If we could get him in prison here all would be well, and the expense and trouble of following him from place to place would be entirely avoided. It was our duty to keep him in jail, where I could introduce a detective, disguised as a fellow-prisoner, whose duty would be to get into his confidence and finally draw from him his secret and learn his plans for the future. I presented my ideas so clearly that the Vice President was convinced that the plan was a good one, and he at once saw St. George Tucker Campbell, the eminent lawyer, laid the whole case before him and asked his opinion. They looked the whole case over, and he admitted that my plan was a good one. He said we might be able to hold Maroney for a short time, but he really did not think we could long do so. He might be able to fight it out for three or four weeks, but by that time Maroney would be sure to effect his release. He would be so excited over his daily expectation of effecting his release that it would be impossible for me to make a proper effort to mould his mind to my purpose. He produced sufficient evidence to prove to me that it would be bad policy to try my plan in Philadelphia. This was a crushing blow, and I felt as if a load had been placed upon my breast. Mr. Campbell left me one ray of hope by stating that he was not fully posted in the laws of the State of New York, and that I might be enabled to carry out my purpose there. Leaving Bangs in charge at Philadelphia, the Vice-President and I started for New York. We had a meeting with the President and other officers of the Company, and determined to lay the matter before Clarence A. Seward, the Company's counsellor in New York. He had just been engaged by the Company, as I had been, and so far had attended only to some small matters for them. The Vice-President notified him to meet us at the Astor House, where the case was laid before him. After looking up the points of law involved, he decided that we could hold Maroney in New York. We then instructed him to get the papers in readiness, so that the moment Maroney stepped into New York he should be arrested. How happy did I now feel! All care was gone, the weight of sorrow had been lifted from my breast as if by the hand of magic: hope had taken the place of despair, and I returned to Philadelphia with renewed energy and firmness, bound to win beyond a peradventure. I now assigned to Green the duty of shadowing Mrs. Maroney, and to Rivers the duty of shadowing Maroney. I gave them strict orders to keep separate, and to make a move only when the persons they were shadowing moved. After Maroney had washed himself and removed his travel-soiled garments, he had a long confidential talk with his wife, played with and caressed Flora, and then walked out with them on Chestnut street. They proceeded as far as Eighth, apparently amusing themselves by looking into the shop windows, and then returned and did not leave the hotel during the evening, passing the time in their rooms. At eleven they retired, thus allowing their "shadows," Green and Rivers to retire also. _CHAPTER XV._ Saturday, the seventh of May, was a busy one for my operatives. Maroney left the hotel, followed by Rivers, walked around, visited different stores, and finally stopped at the corner of Vine and Third streets. In five or ten minutes, who should come along and meet him but Mrs. Maroney, shadowed by Green? It seemed strange to Rivers that they should have taken this roundabout way of meeting, and he could not understand the reason for it. When Mrs. Maroney came up, Maroney took her arm, and together they walked to the office of Alderman G. W. Williams. They remained in the office some fifteen minutes, and on coming out went directly to the Washington House. In a few minutes they again appeared, accompanied by Flora, and getting into a carriage were driven to the ferry, crossed over to Camden, and took the train for New York. Rivers, who was the fastest runner, started on a keen run for the Adams Express Office and reported to me that the Maroney family were under way for New York. Bangs was in New York, so I telegraphed to him, informing him of their departure for that city. He immediately found Mr. Seward and had everything in readiness to give them a warm reception. But what had they been doing at Alderman Williams's? It was better to find out at once. I supposed he had been executing some deed. I consulted with the Vice-President about the person most likely to procure the desired information from Alderman Williams. After due consideration, we decided that Mr. Franklin, head of the city detectives, was the best man for the purpose. Franklin had always been square and honest in all his dealings, but I determined not to put too much confidence in him. I am always suspicious of men until I know them thoroughly, or have them employed in my establishment; I therefore instructed Rivers to watch Alderman Williams, and learn all that he could. The Vice-President sent for Franklin, and employed him to find out what had transpired at the Alderman's. Franklin was a genial man, a good talker, and devoted to his duty. He proved himself to be the best man we could have procured for our purpose. He was well acquainted with Alderman Williams, and strolled along past his office. The Alderman was seated with his feet cocked up on the window-sill, smoking a cigar, and, not having much to do, hailed Franklin as he went by, asking him to come in. Franklin accepted the invitation, and lighting a cigar which the Alderman handed him, took a seat. The Alderman had witnessed an amusing scene, and, knowing Franklin's fondness for a good story, related it to him. Franklin thought the story a good one, laughed heartily at it, and then told one or two of his own. He finally turned to the Alderman, and said; "I say, Williams, this is rather dry work. What do you say to going down to the restaurant with me, and having some oysters and a bottle of champagne to wash them down?" Williams, like most Aldermen, was fond of the good things of this earth, and accepted the proposition without waiting for a second asking. He locked up his office, and they went down to the restaurant. Franklin gave his orders, and the delicious bivalves were soon smoking before them. He called for champagne, and under its exhilarating influence grew wittier and wittier, and kept the Alderman in such roars of laughter that he could scarcely swallow his oysters. At length Franklin told a story of a man by the name of Maroney, who had come to the city, and getting into rather questionable company, had been fleeced of quite a large amount of money. He had sought Franklin's aid in ferreting out the thieves, but finding it would be necessary to disclose his name and the circumstances in which he was robbed, and that the facts would find their way into the daily papers, he concluded to bear the loss and say no more about it. [Illustration: "Franklin gave his orders and the delicious bivalves were soon smoking before them. He called for champagne, and under its exhilarating influence grew wittier and wittier, and kept the alderman in such roars of laughter that he could scarcely swallow his oysters."--Page 125.] As he finished this little story the Alderman laughed heartily, and remarked: "I'll bet five dollars it is the same man." "Why, what do you mean?" inquired Franklin. "Well, a man named Nathan Maroney came to my office yesterday with a wealthy widow, Mrs. Irvin, and I married them. I got a good big fee, too, and I'll bet five dollars he is the same man that called on you. Of course he would not want it known that he frequented such places just as he was going to be married, and so did not prosecute. Don't you see?" They both laughed heartily, and Franklin, having learned all he wanted to, soon took his departure. He reported to the Vice-President that Maroney had been married the day before, and the Vice-President immediately communicated the news to me. I hurriedly thought the matter over. I had all the points on Mrs. Maroney that I wanted. I could see that there was some cogent reason for Maroney's marrying Mrs. Irvin. He wanted to place her where she would tell no stories. There were only two ways to do this. Maroney, the thief, had either to murder his mistress, or to make her his wife. I could see plainly through the whole transaction. Maroney, after committing the robbery, had, in exact accordance with my theory, found that he needed some one in whom he could confide, and with whom he could ease his overburdened mind by disclosing the facts of the robbery. Who could be a safer person than his mistress? Her interests were identical with his; he had gained her the entrée to good society; had taken her from a house of infamy, where she was shunned and scorned, and by allowing her the use of his name, had placed her in a position to _demand_ respect. In all things she seemed devoted to his interests, and so far as he knew, her conduct while with him had been beyond reproach. What could be more natural than his selecting her and pouring into her ear the details of his crime? How well it must have made him feel to find in her not a stern moralist who would turn from him with scorn and point to the heinousness of his crime, but a sweet enthusiast, with ideas moulded to suit his, who would encourage and renew his feelings of ultimate success and almost rob crime of its horrors! What a happy moment it must have been to her to hear Maroney give vent to his pent-up feelings! How she must have looked forward with delight to the coming time when Maroney, rich with his ill-gotten spoils, should place her in a position _far_ above what she had ever anticipated reaching! How her eyes must have flashed as she thought how she could then return with redoubled force the scorn that had been shown to her! She had only one more step to take and then her life of shame would be completely covered up: Maroney _must_ marry her!! She now had him in her power; she would be true to him if he would be to her; but if he _refused_ her request to make her an honest woman in the eyes of the world, woe be to him!! "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." She did not at once force the matter on Maroney, but waited until she reached the North, and then gradually unfolded to him the necessity of his marrying her. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow, but unless he chose to add murder to his other crimes, was his only means of safety. The necessity was rendered all the more distasteful by the fact that he was now really in love with a girl who possessed all the qualifications which render the sex so dear to man. He had formed a plan to get rid of his mistress, Mrs. Irvin, as soon as possible after his trial, and then to marry the girl he loved, but he was doomed to disappointment. As he had not the courage to kill Mrs. Irvin, he had been forced North to marry her. He therefore was determined to kill two birds with one stone, and while North have some keys made to fit the company's pouch. I sat for some hours in the office of the General Superintendent, cogitating over the matter, and finally concluded to have the notice of the marriage published. I wrote out the notice in the usual form and sent it to the _Philadelphia Press_. It read: "MARRIED. "MARONEY--IRVIN--At Philadelphia, on May 7th, 1859, by Alderman G. W. Williams, Nathan Maroney, of Montgomery, Ala., to Mrs. Irvin, of Jenkintown, Penn. "Montgomery papers please copy." I sent copies of the _Press_ containing this notice to all the Montgomery papers, enclosing the usual one dollar note to pay for its insertion in their columns, and in a few days the news was blazoned forth in Montgomery. But I had not finished with it yet. I got the names of all the ladies with whom Maroney was acquainted in Montgomery and the surrounding country, also of all his male friends, and, buying a large number of the _Press_ containing this notice, I had copies directed to these persons; and also to his friends in Atlanta, Chattanooga, Nashville, Memphis, Natchez, New Orleans and Mobile, not forgetting the _highly respectable_ ladies at the pleasant house at Chattanooga, or at Natchez, on the hill. These papers I sent to Porter by express, directing him to mail them. Wherever I could learn of any of Maroney's friends, I furnished them with copies of the _Press_. They must have thought some one very kind to take so much interest in him, or more likely thought he had sent them himself. I knew I was making capital for the company by having the notice so fully circulated in Montgomery. The inhabitants were amazed when they saw it, and terribly indignant at Maroney's conduct. While it was true that Maroney and his wife had never mingled much in society in Montgomery, still he had brought a woman there and openly lived with her as his wife, who had not only led a life of infamy prior to her meeting with Maroney, but who, even then, was but his mistress. It was an outrage upon decency, and as such was felt and resented. From Maroney's personal popularity and agreeable manners, there were many who believed in his innocence, still more who did not desire his conviction. His marriage thinned the ranks of the latter and entirely wiped out almost every trace of the former. The man who would live with and introduce a prostitute as his wife, was regarded as never too good to be guilty of robbery or any other crime. The sympathy which had been felt and expressed for Maroney by those who regarded him as fighting single-handed against a wealthy and powerful corporation, was now regarded as having been worse than thrown away. It was at once and permanently withdrawn. My move had proved a perfect success and I now felt much easier about the result of the final trial to be held in Montgomery. We left Maroney, his wife and Flora on the cars, bound for New York, to enjoy their honey-moon. They were shadowed by Green, and he noticed that Mrs. Maroney appeared supremely happy. She had accomplished her purpose; she was now a legally married woman. Maroney was in good spirits, but must have had a hard battle to keep them up. He was now enjoying some of the sweets of crime, being forced to leave the girl he loved and marry a common prostitute. He had sold his freedom for gold, and although outwardly he appeared calm and happy, inwardly he was racked with contending emotions. What would he now not have given to be back in his old position, free from the taint of crime, free to do as he wished? But the fatal step had been taken; he could not retrace it, he must go on, and when he won, as he now felt sure he would, could he not find some quiet way to get rid of his wife? They were rapidly nearing Jersey City, and when they reached there Mrs. Maroney grasped Maroney's arm, and taking Flora by the hand, walked aboard the ferry-boat. No newly-married bride ever felt more exultant than she. She glanced with scorn at the hurrying crowd, and as they roughly jostled her, felt contaminated by the touch. They little dreamed of the reception that awaited them in New York. The news of their marriage had been flashed over the wires to Bangs, and he had made all preparations to give them a warm reception. Bangs had called for Mr. Seward, and he having all the papers ready, drove to the Marshal's office. Seward was a great favorite with every one, and had no trouble in getting United States Marshal Keefe and a deputy to accompany him. They were all engaged when he called, but readily postponed their other business to attend to him. They, with Bangs, proceeded to the ferry and crossed over to Jersey City, to meet the train coming from Philadelphia. When Maroney and his wife stepped on the ferry boat they did not notice the consultation of Green, Bangs and Marshal Keefe. When the boat touched the wharf in New York, all was hurry and bustle. Maroney, with his wife and Flora, stood one side for a few moments, waiting for the crush to be over, and then stepped proudly out for the wharf. He had taken scarcely three steps on the soil of New York before he was confronted by Marshal Keefe. "You are my prisoner!" said he. "Nathan Maroney, I demand that you immediately deliver to me fifty thousand dollars, the property of the Adams Express, which you feloniously have in your possession." [Illustration: "_You are my prisoner!" said he. "Nathan Maroney, I demand that you immediately deliver to me fifty thousand dollars, the property of the Adams Express Company._"--Page 131.] If a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet he could not have been more astonished. The demand of the Marshal, delivered in a loud, harsh tone, and coming so unexpectedly, completely unnerved him, and for a moment he shook like a leaf. His head swam around, and he felt as though he would drop to the ground. By a desperate effort he gained control of himself. His wife hung speechless on his arm, while little Flora grasped her mother's dress, and gazed with a startled, frightened look at the Marshal and the rapidly gathering crowd. "I have no money belonging to the Express Company!" said Maroney, and supposing that that was all that was wanted with him, he attempted to force himself past the Marshal. "Not so fast!" exclaimed the Marshal, taking hold of one of Maroney's arms, while his deputy stepped forward to assist him, if Maroney made any resistance. "Not so fast, you must come with me!" Maroney could scarcely realize his situation; it was to him a horrid dream. In a few moments he would awake and laugh at it. But the jeering crowd, the stern officers of the law, his weeping wife and her frightened child, formed a scene which was indelibly stamped on his memory never to be obliterated. His wife insisted that her husband should be allowed to accompany her to the Astor House, and the Marshal finally consented. At the Astor House he saw his wife and Flora in their room, in the presence of Marshal Keefe, his deputy, and Bangs. No words passed between them. His new-made bride of only six hours was bathed in tears--what a honey-moon! Maroney was almost in tears himself, but he choked them back. He kissed his wife and Flora, and motioning to the officers that he was ready, followed them to Eldridge street jail. How terribly must he have felt when the heavy door of his cell was bolted upon him, and he was left in solitude to brood over his position. How he must have cursed the moment when he married Mrs. Irvin. He did so merely to save himself, and now he was in prison! What would he not have given to undo what only six hours before he had been so anxious to consummate! What a blow it would have been to him if he could have known the efforts I was then making to disseminate through the South the news of his marriage; but this I did not intend he should know. Mrs. Maroney thought that Maroney would soon be out of jail, but wondered why he had been arrested in New York. She concluded that the Company had determined on the plan of suddenly confronting him and charging him with the crime, hoping that if guilty he would break down and make a confession. He had passed through the trying ordeal unscathed and most likely would be liberated in the morning. She little thought they had been separated never more to be united. _CHAPTER XVI._ Mr. Seward had done his work well. I had little fear that Maroney would get out, as his bail was fixed at one hundred thousand dollars--double the amount of the robbery. The question now arose: What shall we do with Maroney? I held a consultation with the Vice-President, Seward, and Bangs, and suggested the propriety of placing one of my detectives, named White, in jail with him. White was in Chicago, but I could send for him and have him in readiness for the work in a few days. White was a shrewd, smart man to act under orders, and nothing more was required. I proposed that he be introduced to to the jail in the following way: He was to assume the character of a St. Louis pork-packer. It was to be charged against him that he had been dealing largely in hogs in the West, had come to New York with a quantity of packed pork of his own to sell; and also had had a lot consigned to him to sell on commission; he had disposed of all the pork, pocketed all the proceeds, and then disappeared, intending to leave for Europe, but had been discovered and arrested. The amount involved in the case should be about thirty-seven thousand dollars. It was part of my plan to introduce a young man, who should pretend to be a nephew of White's, and who should call on him and do his outside business. I had a good man for this work, in the person of Mr. Shanks. His duties would be to call at the jail daily, see his uncle White, carry his letters, go to his lawyers, run all his errands, etc. White was not to force his acquaintance on Maroney, or any of the prisoners, but to hold himself aloof from them all. He was to pass a good deal of time in writing letters, hold hurried consultations with his nephew and send him off with them. Shanks was to be obliging, and if any of the prisoners requested him to do them favors, he was to willingly consent. Very few people outside of a prison know how necessary it is to have a friend who will call on prisoners and do little outside favors for them. No matter how popular a man may be, or how many true friends he thinks he has, he will find if he is thrust into prison, that all of them will very likely desert him, and he will then keenly feel the necessity of having some one even to run his errands. If he has no friend to act for him, he will have to pay dearly for every move he makes. A man like Shanks would soon be popular with the prisoners, and have his hands full of commissions. There were a good many objections made to my plan, but with Mr. Seward's assistance, all its weak points were cleared away, and it was made invulnerable. I telegraphed, ordering White and Shanks to come on to New York, and, leaving Bangs in charge there, I started in a few days for Philadelphia. Green was still employed in "shadowing" Mrs. Maroney, and kept a close watch on her movements. On the morning after Maroney's arrest she visited him in the Eldridge street jail, leaving Flora in the Astor House. They had a long, private interview, after which she enquired of the Marshal the amount of bail necessary to effect her husband's release. He informed her that the bail had been fixed at one hundred thousand dollars. She seemed surprised at the large amount, returned and conversed with Maroney, then left the jail, and getting into a carriage, was driven to Thirty-first street. Green hailed a passing cab and followed at his ease. When she stopped, he had his hackman drive on a few blocks and turn down a cross street, where he stopped him. He told the driver to await his return, and getting out of the hack, walked slowly down the street, keeping a sharp lookout on the house she went into. Mrs. Maroney remained in the house about half an hour, and then came out and was driven to Pearl street. Here she went into a large building occupied by an extensive wholesale clothing establishment, remained some time, and then came out with a gentleman who accompanied her to the Eldridge street jail. Green remained in his carriage. Mrs. Maroney and the gentleman soon came out; he bade her good-bye, and she drove to several business-houses in the city. Maroney received several calls during the day; he was very irritable, and seemed much depressed in spirits. Mrs. Maroney returned to the Astor House at dark, weary, depressed, and despondent. Green reported to Bangs that it was easy to read what she had accomplished. Maroney had a number of friends in New York, and she had been to see if they would not go on his bail-bond. They had all refused, some giving one excuse, some another, and the desired bail _could not be procured_. For the purpose of finding his prospects, I had some of his friends interviewed, and managed to learn that the friend on whom Maroney principally relied to furnish bail, was one whom he had met in the South when he was a drummer, but who had now become a partner in the house. Mrs. Maroney called on him; he expressed great sympathy for Maroney and her, but could not go on his bond, as the articles of association of the firm forbade any of the partners signing bonds, etc. In two days it was discovered that Maroney had no prospects of getting the required bail. Some of his friends, whom he importuned to assist him, called at the express office to find the reasons for his incarceration. They were generally met by the President or by the General Superintendent and informed that Maroney had robbed the company of ten thousand dollars at one time and forty thousand dollars at another, and it was for this that he was now in prison. The gentlemen saw at once the risk they would run in going his bail and concluded not to venture. I was convinced that if the public knew he had stolen fifty thousand dollars and that the company were bound to prosecute him, he could not procure bail, and so it turned out. Mrs. Maroney called at the jail several times and did everything in her power to procure bail, but finally gave up in despair. She had a long interview with Maroney, then drove to the Astor House, paid her bill, and, getting into a carriage with Flora, went to Jersey City and took the train for Philadelphia. I had sent Roch to New York to "shadow" her and had brought Rivers to Philadelphia with me, as no shadow was needed for Maroney. When Mrs. Maroney left New York, Green turned her over to Roch and he accompanied her to Philadelphia. I had been informed of her departure and had Rivers ready to meet her in Camden on her arrival. She arrived safely. Rivers relieved Roch and he reported to me. I supposed she would remain for the night in Philadelphia, but was disappointed, as she went directly to the North Pennsylvania station and took the cars for Jenkintown. I was not quite prepared for this move, but by four in the morning I was in a buggy on my road to Jenkintown. When I arrived I put up at Stemples's, had an early breakfast, and seized upon a favorable opportunity to have a short conversation with Madam Imbert. I hurriedly instructed her to try and meet Mrs. Maroney, and if possible draw from her an account of what had happened and learn her plans for the future. I then got into my buggy and drove back to the city. It was a beautiful, bright morning, and the drive was very delightful. Madam Imbert, accompanied by Miss Johnson, went for her accustomed stroll in the garden. They walked around for some time and were about returning when they met Mrs. Maroney and Flora. Miss Johnson took charge of Flora, who was her special favorite, and drew her to one side to have a romp while Mrs. Maroney and the Madam strolled along together. Mrs. Maroney asked very anxiously about the Madam's health and seemed to be much pained when she learned that she was very poorly. "Mrs. Maroney," said Madam Imbert, "I fear you find me poor company, indeed. Your life must be happy beyond expression. You have a kind husband, a sweet child, everything that makes life enjoyable! while I am separated from my dear husband, far away, with no one to love me! no one to care for me! I have bitter trouble, rendered all the harder to bear by the fact that I have to brood over it alone. I have not one friend in this wide world to whom I can fly for consolation. No! not one! My life is unspeakably lonely. You will forgive me for not being more gay; I cannot help it! I strive to be, but it is impossible. I often fear that my melancholy has a chilling effect on those around me, and that they think me cold and heartless!" "Madam Imbert, my dear Madam, don't say that you are thought to be cold and heartless! Every one feels that you are suffering some great sorrow, and all are drawn towards you. As for me I have always tried to secure the sympathy of my lady friends, but I have only half succeeded. You are the first one in whom I have ever felt that I could confide, the first whom I wished to be my friend. If you are in trouble and feel the need of a friend, why not rely on me? make me your confidante." "Mrs. Maroney, you do not know what you ask! My story is a sad one, indeed. I already value your friendship too highly to risk losing it. If you were to know my history, I fear you would turn from me in disgust." Madam Imbert's tears flowed freely; she leaned on Mrs. Maroney for support. Mrs. Maroney turned into one of the side paths and they took a seat on a bench. After much persuasion, Madam Imbert was prevailed on to disclose her secret. She described to Mrs. Maroney the many virtues of her husband; told how wealthy he was, and then, with many sobs, and much apparent reluctance, stated that he was enticed into committing forgeries; that he was arrested, tried, convicted and sent to the State prison for ten years, and that now she was debarred from seeing him. She was greatly relieved when she found that Mrs. Maroney did not turn from her in horror on discovering that she was the wife of a convict. On the contrary, Mrs. Maroney said: "It was _too_ bad, indeed!" She had suffered also, worse even than Madam Imbert, as her husband was innocent. Things looked bad for him at present, but all would be bright by-and-by. They had plenty of friends, but when they wanted them, they were not to be found. She said that she was going South soon, but did not intend to stay long. She did not say that her husband was in jail, but merely that he was in some trouble. Madam Imbert replied that it was very hard; that there seemed nothing but trouble in this world, and they were both shedding tears copiously, when who should come in sight but De Forest? De Forest was truly in love with Mrs. Maroney. He had heard that morning that she had returned, and, finding that she was in the garden, had started in pursuit of her, and arrived at a most inopportune moment. As he came in view, Mrs. Maroney exclaimed: "Here comes that awkward fool! He is such a hateful creature! I'd like to poison him!" De Forest came gaily along, expecting to be received with open arms, but instead found both the ladies in tears. "O ladies, what's the matter? Crying!" The ladies said nothing, but Mrs. Maroney gave him a scornful look which made him tremble. He had, however, broken up the interview, and the party separated, Madam Imbert saying that she would call in the afternoon. De Forest walked off with Mrs. Maroney, but he found that she had changed wonderfully, and he got nothing from her but cold looks and sharp answers. He could not understand her conduct, and the next day came into the Express Office, and mournfully reported that Mrs. Maroney had acted in a manner he could not understand, and that he feared some one had cut him out. Rivers kept a close watch on Mrs. Maroney, and in the afternoon called at the house to see Josh. He found the house in confusion, and an improvised washing of Mrs. Maroney's and Flora's clothing going on. Josh. was carrying water, and doing all he could to help the washing along. "D----d busy to-day," said he; "the old woman got an idea into her head to wash, and although I protested against it, I had to give in and haul the water." "Oh!" said Mrs. Cox to Josh., "you are always in my way." Rivers took this as a rather broad hint to him that he was in the way, and so asked Josh. to come up town with him. Josh. willingly acquiesced, and they started out. On the way they met Barclay and Horton, and adjourned to Stemples's. Rivers treated, and then endeavored to find out from Cox the reasons of his wife's hurry and bustle. Cox told him that his wife had taken a sudden notion to wash, and although he had strongly objected, she had impressed him into the service, and set him at work doing the chores and hauling the water. Rivers tried to get more explicit information, but could not. Cox, with all his shiftlessness, knew when to hold his tongue; and so, after plying him with several drinks, Rivers was obliged to let him go, without finding out what he wanted. Rivers felt that something important was under way. He had followed Mrs. Maroney on her hurried journey to Jenkintown; had seen her hold a long confidential interview with Madam Imbert, which was broken up by the unwelcome appearance of De Forest, and knew of the preparations going on at Cox's. So he was on the alert. _CHAPTER XVII._ In the afternoon Madam Imbert called on Mrs. Maroney, leaving Miss Johnson at home. Mrs. Maroney met her kindly, and poured into her ear a tale of sorrow. She told Madam Imbert that she was going South for a short visit, but that she would soon return, and then they could comfort each other. She did not mention where she was going, or allude in any way to Montgomery. Madam Imbert did not deem it good policy to ask questions too closely, and, although she very much wished to get information, she remembered my strict orders against running any risk, and did not ask. In the evening Rivers went up to Stemples's and took a seat in the bar-room, as it was the best place to gain information of what was going on. He had not been long there before Josh. Cox came in and asked for Stemples. "He is in the stable," said Rivers; "I will go and get him for you." "No," said Cox, "don't disturb yourself," and started for the stable himself. Rivers very politely accompanied him, but was unable to overhear what was said, as Cox drew Stemples to one side and spoke to him in a low tone. Stemples said, "All right!" and Cox started off. Rivers stopped him, and asked him to take a drink. "I don't mind if I do," answered Josh.; and after drinking he said: "I am in a d----d hurry," and was gone. "There is one drink gone to no purpose," muttered Rivers, as he made his way to the barn. He found Stemples hurriedly harnessing up his team, and turned in to help him. "Strange fellow, that Cox!" remarked Stemples. "He wanted to get my team and not let me know where he was going. I told him he could not have it if he did not say where he was going, and he then said he was going to Chestnut Hill, a few miles this side of Philadelphia, but I'll bet he is going into the city. He said he would have the team back before morning, so I finally consented to let him have it." This was startling news to Rivers. There were no horses in the town that he could hire, and he had no time to harness them if there had been. He managed to see Madam Imbert, and reported to her his predicament. "They are going into the city," said she, "and you must follow them at all hazards, even if you have to run every step of the way." Rivers had no time to lose. Stemples's team was at the door, and in a few minutes Josh. came for it and drove down to his house. Mrs. Maroney and Flora were waiting for him, and, as he drove up, got into the wagon, while Josh. hoisted up their trunks. Rivers had no conveyance, but he was determined not to be outdone; he was young and athletic, and as they drove off he started after them on a keen run. He knew he had a twelve-mile race before him, but felt equal to the task. The night was very dark, and he had to follow by sound. This was an advantage to him, as it compelled Cox to drive somewhat slower than he otherwise would have done, and rendered it impossible for them to see him from the wagon. On and on he plunged through the darkness, following the sound of the hoofs and the wheels. The moments seemed to have turned to hours; when would they ever reach the city? At times he felt that he must give up and drop by the way; but he forced the feeling back, and plunged on with the determination of winning. When they reached the outskirts of the city Josh. reduced his speed, so that Rivers easily followed without attracting attention. Josh. drove to the corner of Prime and Broad streets, to the depot of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad, and assisted Mrs. Maroney and Flora to alight. As usual, there was a great crowd at the depot, and Rivers, mixing with it, followed Mrs. Maroney and Flora to the ticket-office without being observed by them, and went close enough to them to hear her ask for tickets to Montgomery. Rivers knew no time was to be lost; it was a quarter past ten, and the train left at ten minutes past eleven. He rushed out of the depot, where he saw Josh. getting the baggage checked, and hailing a hack, said to the driver: "Here is a five-dollar bill for you if you will drive me to the Merchants' Hotel and back in time to catch the train." [Illustration: "_On and on he plunged through the darkness, following the sound of the hoofs and the wheels; at times he felt that he must give up and drop by the way, but he forced the feeling back and plunged on with the determination of winning._"--Page 145.] "All right," said the driver, and springing to his seat he put his horses to a full gallop, and whirled off toward the hotel. Bangs had run down from New York the same evening to consult me on some matters, and he and I were sitting in a room at the Merchants', smoking our cigars, preparatory to retiring after a hard day's work, when Rivers rushed in, and gasped out: "Get Roch up. Mrs. Maroney and daughter are on the train bound for Montgomery." We threw our cigars out of the window, and had Roch up, dressed as a Dutchman, his trunk packed, and he into the carriage with us on the way to the P., W. & B. R. R. before he was fully awake. I turned out all the money I had with me--not a great deal, as it was so late--and rapidly gave him his instructions as we drove along. We arrived at the station just in time. Roch rushed to the ticket office, said "Second-class, Montgomery," received and paid for his ticket, and sprang upon the last car of the train as it slowly drew out of the station. There were no sleeping-cars at the time, which was fortunate for him, as, if there had been, he might not have been allowed to get on the train. In a moment the train disappeared in the gloom, and Mrs. Maroney and Flora were kindly provided with an escort, in the person of Roch. Leaving them to pursue their journey, we will now return to Maroney, in the Eldridge street jail. White and Shanks soon came on from Chicago, and Bangs gave them full instructions as to their duties. White was ordered to follow his instructions implicitly, and not to attempt to move too fast. Bangs arranged a cipher for him, to be used in his correspondence, and he learned it thoroughly, so as not to need a key. Having thoroughly posted them, Bangs turned his attention to procuring the arrest of White. He secured the services of a common, one-horse lawyer, and placed the case in his hands. The lawyer felt highly honored at being employed in a case of such magnitude, involving thirty-seven thousand dollars, and remarked that he would soon have Mr. John White secure in prison. He procured the necessary papers and placed them in the hands of the Marshal to execute. Bangs knew just where White was to be found, but gave the Marshal a big job before coming across him. He searched the hotels, saloons, lawyers' offices, etc., going up to the different places, peeping in, and then going off on not finding him. He was doing an immense business hunting for White. Toward evening White was discovered talking to Shanks. The Marshal took him into custody and conducted him to the Eldridge street jail. Shanks, being a stranger in New York, accompanied him, so that he might know the place afterwards. White was booked at once, and while going along with the jailer was asked whether he wished to go to the first or second-class, the jailer judging that he would not take the third-class. The first-class was composed of those fortunate mortals who had money enough to send out to the neighboring restaurants and order in their meals. Of course Maroney was in the first-class, so White followed suit. He gave the jailer the usual _douceur_ for introducing him to the prison, and then had his cell pointed out. White sent Shanks, who had accompanied him so far, to fetch his carpet-bag and some clothes. He then retired to his cell to meditate over his painful situation. He glanced around amongst the prisoners, and soon picked out his man. Maroney did not seem to be doing any thing particular, but sat musing by himself. In this manner, brooding over their misfortunes, White and Maroney spent the evening until the hour of retirement. The next day White kept by himself, pondering over what he should do. In the course of the day his nephew, Shanks, who was a young man of about twenty, came with the satchel, and made himself very useful to White by carrying several messages for him. Some of the prisoners noticed this and asked White if he would not let his nephew do little outside favors for them. White said "Certainly, I shall be only too happy to assist you in any way I can." Shanks was soon such a favorite with the prisoners that he greatly reduced the perquisites of the jailor. Maroney gradually became quite familiar with White. He would bid him good morning when they were released from their cells, and take an occasional turn in the hall with him. They were shut in together, and it became necessary to get acquainted. White wrote frequent letters to his lawyer, who was Bangs, under another name, and received regular replies, Shanks being the medium of communication. This was a great convenience, as lawyers are not always able to visit their clients when they wish them to. Maroney appeared to have few friends. Mrs. Maroney had gone, and he had no one to pay him regular attention. A few friends would call occasionally, but their visits seemed prompted rather by curiosity than by a desire to assist him, they gradually grew fewer and farther between, and finally ceased altogether. He received letters from the South, from Mrs. Maroney, who was on her journey, and from Charlie May, Patterson, and Porter, at Montgomery. These friends kept him well posted. The letters sent by Porter were copies of those I sent him, and were on the general topics of the day. Porter said he was sorry to have to address him in Eldridge street jail, and wished he could be of some assistance to him. He alluded with anger to the report which had been circulated of his, (Maroney's) marriage. Of course all his friends at Patterson's knew he had been married for years, and that the report was a dodge of the Express Company to make him unpopular. Outside of his friends at Patterson's, every one in Montgomery seemed to believe the slander, and many said they always thought there was something wrong about Mrs. Maroney, and they expected nothing better from her. Many, also, said they had a poor opinion of him and believed he had committed the robbery. Porter concluded by stating that McGibony, the detective, seemed completely nonplussed, and had but little to say about the matter. He, (Porter) had conversed with him, and McGibony seemed of the opinion that it was a move of the Adams Express to place him in an odious position with the inhabitants of Montgomery. After the receipt of this letter, Maroney appeared to be exceedingly down hearted. White noticed it, and so reported to Bangs. As Mrs. Maroney had not yet arrived in Montgomery, she was of course entirely unaware that the news of their marriage had been spread broadcast, and her letters were quite cheerful. White was occasionally drawn into a game of cards. Euchre was the game generally played; he was well able to hold his hand, and seldom lost. The stakes were generally for the cigars, or something in a liquid shape, and the supplies were brought in by Shanks. Maroney would sometimes take a hand, but it was a careless habit with him, and he did not care how he played. As time passed away the prisoners became well acquainted, and would talk over the various reasons for their imprisonment. At certain times of the day they would be visited by their lawyers. Maroney had no lawyer engaged, but keenly watched those that came, in order to see which was the smartest, so that he might know whom to employ should he require one's services. Maroney was a smart man, and he gradually came to the conclusion that a lawyer named Joachimson would be the right man for him. White observed that he began to nod to him, and that they always exchanged the compliments of the day. This was as far as he went at present, it being evidently his intention not to employ counsel until Mrs. Maroney returned from the South. At least these were his thoughts so far as White could fathom them. Leaving Maroney for the present, we will glance at Jenkintown. Here everything was quiet; in other words, quotations were low and no sales. Madam Imbert had little to do. She walked in the pleasure grounds with Miss Johnson, or called at Mrs. Cox's, with whom the Madam was now on the best of terms. Mrs. Cox had a number of children and the Madam often bought them little presents and exerted a kindly influence over them. Whenever Miss Johnson and she met Josh. on the street they would notice him, and the attention would make him feel quite proud. De Forest acted the same as before, and was becoming rather sweet on Miss Johnson. Madam Imbert was sad and melancholy, and repelled all his advances with quiet dignity. We will leave them to enjoy their easy times, having to make only two reports a week, while we follow Mrs. Maroney and Roch. _CHAPTER XVIII._ Nothing worthy of record occurred on the journey and they arrived at Montgomery in due time. Roch telegraphed to Porter from Augusta, Ga., that they were coming, and he, having been previously informed of the fact, was, of course, at the station to meet them. He was now Maroney's bosom friend, and as such paid much attention to Mrs. Maroney. He met her at the depot with a carriage when she arrived, and conducted Flora and her to the Exchange Hotel and gave them a room. The difficulty with Mr. Floyd had been smoothed over and she soon felt at home. But something strange seemed to have taken place in Montgomery. Porter, of course, paid her great attention and gave her one of the best rooms the house afforded; but all the ladies she met during the day passed her very coolly. The gentlemen were all friendly, but not so cordial as usual. She could not understand it. She did not go out much the first day, but called up the porter, and, going to the garret with him, pointed out the old trunk and had him take it down to her room. The following day she called at Charlie May's. Something unusual must have happened, as she left there in bitter anguish. The house was near the hotel and Porter had seen her go in and come out. She wore no veil and the traces of her grief were plainly visible. She returned to the hotel and went to her room. Porter, in a short time, stepped up, knocked at her door and enquired of Flora how her ma was. Flora said her ma was not well, that she had a bad headache. He was bound to get in, so he pushed past the child and saw Mrs. Maroney lying on the bed crying. Being the clerk of the hotel, his coming in would not be considered unusual. He enquired if there was nothing he could do for her, and she said no. He surmised what had happened and concluded he could find out all about it at Patterson's. He went over to Patterson's and met Charlie May. Charlie said that Mrs. Maroney had called on his wife, but had been roughly handled--tongued would be the proper word. Mrs. May informed her of what she had read and otherwise heard about her getting married at this late date. Mrs. Maroney denied the report and declared that they had been married in Savannah long before; that they had afterwards lived in New Orleans, Augusta, Ga., and finally had settled in Montgomery. Mrs. May replied that it was useless for her to try and live the report down; that the ladies of Montgomery had determined not to recognize her, and that she had been tabooed from society. Mrs. May grew wrathful and warned Mrs. Maroney to beware how she conducted herself toward Mr. May. Mrs. Maroney rose proudly from her chair, and giving Mrs. May a look that made her tremble, said: "Mr. Maroney is as thoroughly a gentleman as Mr. May or any one in Montgomery, and he is capable of protecting himself and me." She then flounced out of the house and returned to the hotel. She remained in her room all day, but on the following morning went to the office of her husband's counsel, where she remained some time, and then returned to the hotel. Porter was summoned to her room, and on going up she asked him if McGibony was around. Porter said he presumed he was at the Court House. Mrs. Maroney then said: "I would like to see him! My poor husband is in trouble and I need the assistance of all his friends, not but that he will eventually prove himself innocent and make the company pay him heavy damages for their outrageous persecution! but he is, at present, in the hands of the enemy. If he were only in the South, it would be very different. Here he would have many kind friends to assist him; there he has not one who will turn a finger to help him. Mr. Maroney and I are aware of the scandal that has been spread about us, but we will soon put our timid friends to the blush. They think it will be hard for Maroney to fight a wealthy corporation like the Adams Express, and, instead of helping him, seem inclined to join the stronger party. With them 'might makes right,' and when Maroney gains the day, how they will come crawling back to congratulate him and say, 'We always felt that you were innocent.' O Mr. Porter, it is a shame. Why is Maroney held a prisoner in the North, when he should be tried before a jury of his fellow Southerners? What will not money do in this country? But I will show the Adams Express that they are not dealing with a weak, timid woman. I have just been to see my husband's counsel and have made arrangements to get a requisition from the Governor of Alabama on the Governor of New York to have my husband brought here. I want McGibony to go North and bring him down. Of course he would not attempt to escape, but it will be necessary to keep up the form of having him in the charge of an officer, and I think McGibony the proper man to send. If McGibony will not go I shall have to ask you, Mr. Porter, to execute the commission." Porter, not having any orders how to act, said: "I will think the matter over, and have no doubt but that McGibony will be well pleased to go. There is only one difficulty, and that is, he may not have the necessary cash." "That need not deter him," she replied, eagerly. "I have plenty of money, and will gladly pay him all he asks." "I will find him and bring him to your room," said Porter, as he walked away. He went down stairs and immediately telegraphed to Bangs, in cipher, informing him of all he had learned, and asking for instructions in regard to acting as Mrs. Maroney's agent in bringing Maroney to Montgomery. Bangs held a consultation with the General Superintendent. The reasons for Mrs. Maroney's trip South were now plain, and it was necessary for the company's counsel at Montgomery to give the matter immediate attention. The General Superintendent telegraphed to Watts, Judd & Jackson of Mrs. Maroney's intended coup d'état, and ordered them to take the necessary steps to checkmate her, while Bangs ordered Porter to avoid acting as Mrs. Maroney's agent. In the meantime Porter found McGibony, and conducted him to Mrs. Maroney's room. He learned that Charlie May and Patterson had come up during his absence. Mrs. Maroney made her desire known to McGibony, and he at once accepted the commission. She thanked him, and remarked that she hoped to have all in readiness in a few days. Charlie May was very attentive to her, and she seemed to thoroughly appreciate him, although his wife had treated her so _cavalierly_ the day before. After dismissing the rest of the party she had a long, private conversation with Patterson. In an hour Patterson came down and went to a livery stable where "Yankee Mary" was known to be kept, and soon after Mrs. Maroney had an interview with the proprietor of the livery-stable. Porter had become one of the clique, and found that Maroney had a large interest in the stable. "Yankee Mary" was Maroney's own property, and his business with the livery-stables in Chattanooga and Nashville was to examine and buy horses for his stables in Montgomery. In a couple of days Maroney's interest in the stable was disposed of to Patterson, and the money paid over to Mrs. Maroney. "Yankee Mary" was not sold, and still remained the property of Maroney. All these transactions Porter duly reported to Bangs, and Bangs to the Vice-President. They decided to secure "Yankee Mary" for the company, and Watts, Judd & Jackson were instructed to attach her. This they did, and she changed hands, being afterwards cared for in the stables of the Express Company. Flora was much neglected, as Mrs. Maroney devoted all her time to business. She was continually out in the company of Charlie May, Patterson, the livery-stable keeper, Porter, or McGibony. At last it was announced by her counsel that the "die was cast," and the requisition refused; so McGibony was spared the trouble of going North. The Governor of Alabama came to the conclusion that he could not ask the Governor of New York to deliver up a man who was a prisoner of the United States government, charged with feloniously holding money, until judgment was rendered against him. Mrs. Maroney found she could do nothing in Montgomery, so she packed up and, with Flora, started for Atlanta. Porter had Roch at the depot, and as soon as she started, she was again under the care of the Dutchman. At Atlanta she put up at the Atlanta House, while Roch took quarters in a low boarding-house. He watched closely, but was careful not to be seen, or to excite suspicion. Mrs. Maroney and Flora remained in the hotel, not coming down, for twenty-four hours. She was, no doubt arranging something, but what, was a mystery. What she did will be eventually disclosed. The first notice Roch had of her movements, was when she came out of the hotel with Flora, and was driven to the depot. He had just time to get to his boarding-house, pay his bill, seize his satchel, and get upon the train as it moved off. Mrs. Maroney acted much as her husband did when he left Chattanooga so suddenly. "They are as alike as two peas," thought Roch; "both are secret in all their movements, and make no confidants." But _the eye of the detective never sleeps_, and Maroney and his wife were always outwitted. While they greatly exulted over their shrewdness, the detective, whom they thought they had bewildered, was quietly gazing at them from the rear window of the "nigger car." Roch found that Mrs. Maroney had bought a ticket to Augusta, Ga.; but before reaching that city, she suddenly left the train at Union Point. There was a train in waiting, which she immediately took, and went to Athens. Roch knew nothing about the country they were passing through, and was following blindly wherever she led. They had not gone far on their new route when Athens was announced. Roch saw Mrs. Maroney getting Flora and herself in readiness to leave the train. When the cars stopped at the station Flora and she got out, stepped into an omnibus, and were taken to the Lanier House. Roch followed, and when they entered the hotel, went to a restaurant and got some refreshments. Athens was a thriving inland town. After Roch had finished his meal he strolled around, and finally arrived in front of the Lanier House. Puffing away at his pipe, he took a seat on the verandah. Here he mused for some time, apparently half asleep, when he was aroused by the clattering of hoofs and the rumbling of wheels, and looking up the street he saw a stage approaching. It drew up in front of the hotel, and a knot of people gathered around it. While the horses were being changed, the driver rushed into the bar-room to take a drink. Roch listlessly looked at the hurry and bustle, but suddenly sprang to his feet, and almost dropped his inseparable companion--his pipe--from his mouth, for whom should he see escorted from the hotel, and assisted into the stage, by the landlord, with many a bow and flourish, but Mrs. Maroney and Flora? Her baggage was not brought down, so that he was certain she would return. He had no time to think over the best plan to pursue, but determined to accompany her at all hazards. The driver came out, mounted his seat and Roch got up beside him. It must be admitted that he was badly off for an excuse to account for his movements, as he knew nothing of the country, and did not know where the stage was going. The driver was a long, lank Southerner, burned as brown as a berry by the sun. He always had a huge "chaw" of tobacco stowed away in the side of his left cheek, and, as he drove along, would deposit its juice with unerring aim on any object that attracted his attention. He was very talkative, and at once entered into conversation with Roch. "Wal stranger, whar yar bound?" was his first salutation. Roch looked at him in a bewildered way, and then said, "Nichts verstehe!" [Illustration: "_Wal stranger, whar yar bound," was his first salutation. Roch looked at him in a bewildered way, and then said, "Nichts verstehe!_"--Page 158.] "Whar are yar gwine? Are yar a through passenger, or whar are yar gwine?" "Vel, I vish to see de country. I vil go mit you till I see von ceety vot I likes, und den I vil get out mit it!" "Oh!" said the driver, in a patronizing tone, "yar parspectin', are yar?" And so they kept up a conversation, from which Roch gleaned that the stage was bound for Anderson's Court House, S. C. Whenever the driver would ask a question he did not like to answer, he would say, "nichts verstehe," and so tided over all his difficulties. The passengers, one lady and three gentlemen besides Mrs. Maroney and Flora, amused themselves in various ways as they drove along. The gentlemen smoked and conversed, and the other lady seemed very agreeable; but Mrs. Maroney did not say a word to any one but Flora. Roch as he occasionally glanced over his shoulder at her, observed that she seemed to be suffering from much care and anxiety. Eight miles out from Athens the driver stopped to change his horses, and Roch took advantage of this circumstance to get a little familiar with him. He found this an easy matter. A few drinks and some cigars to smoke on the road--which he treated him to--put him in such a good humor that he declared, as they drove off, that it was a pity his German friend was not a white man. Roch wondered if all the negroes spoke German, but said nothing. They drove along through a rich agricultural country until they arrived at Danielsville, about sixteen miles from Athens. Here Mrs. Maroney touched the driver and asked him if he knew where Mrs. Maroney lived. Oh! thought Roch, now I see her object in coming here. The driver knew the place well, and drove up to a handsome mansion, evidently the dwelling of a wealthy planter. Mrs. Maroney and Flora left the coach and walked up through a beautifully laid out garden to the house, a two story frame, with wide verandahs all around it, and buried in a mass of foliage. She was met at the door by a lady, who kissed both her and Flora, and, relieving her of the satchel, conducted them into the house. Roch in his broken way told the driver that he liked the appearance of the town so much that he thought he would stop over. They drove up to the tavern and Roch asked the driver in to have a drink with him. As they went into the bar-room they met the clerk, and Roch politely asked him to join them. He informed the driver that he might go back with him in a day or two. The driver did not pay much attention to what he said, as all he really cared for was the drink. After the stage left, Roch entered into conversation with the clerk, and, under pretense of settling in the town, made enquiries about the owners of several places he passed on the road. Finally he asked who the handsome residence on the hill belonged to. "That is Mr. Maroney's place. He is one of the 'solid' men of the town; worth a great deal of money; has some niggers, and is held in high esteem by the community, as he is a perfect gentleman." In the evening he dropped into a saloon, where he formed the acquaintance of several old saloon-loafers, who were perfectly familiar with everybody's business but their own, and from them gathered much useful information of the surrounding country, and had the clerk's opinion of Mr. Maroney fully endorsed. Roch was up early in the morning and strolling around. He met an old negro who informed him that the stage for Athens would be along in three hours. He sauntered carelessly to Mr. Maroney's, and watched the house from a safe position, but, as the blinds were closed, could see no signs of preparation within. He therefore returned to the tavern, with the determination of keeping a watch on the stage. He had waited about an hour, when a gentleman walked up the steps to the stage office, which was in the tavern. He heard the clerk say, "Good morning, Mr. Maroney," which immediately put him on the alert. "Good morning," responded Mr. Maroney. "I want to secure three seats in the stage for Athens; want them this morning." Securing his tickets, he went home, leaving Roch once more at his ease, as he now knew exactly what move to make. When the stage drove up, he called in the driver, stood treat, and again took a seat beside him. The clerk told the driver to call at Mr. Maroney's for some passengers, and they started off. Mr. Maroney, Mrs. Maroney and Flora were at the gate when they drove up, and all three entered the stage and went to Athens. At Athens they stopped a short time at the Lanier House; sent their baggage down to the depot, and took the train on the Washington Branch Railroad, which connects with the main line at Union Point. Mr. Maroney bid them good-bye, and returned to the Lanier House. The train consisted of only one car, and Roch had to take a seat in the same car with Mrs. Maroney, but he went in behind her, and took a seat in the rear of the car, so that he remained unnoticed. Mrs. Maroney was very restless, and after they took the through train at Union Point, would carefully scan the features of all the well-dressed men who entered the car. She seemed to suspect every one around her, and acted in a most peculiar manner. In a short time they reached Augusta, Ga., where Mrs. Maroney and Flora left the train and put up at the principal hotel. It was late when they arrived, so that they immediately took supper and retired. Roch found a room in a restaurant, and after his supper strolled through the hotel, but discovered nothing, as Mrs. Maroney and Flora remained quiet in their room. The following afternoon Mrs. Maroney and Flora left the hotel, accompanied by a gentleman, and once more started for the North. The gentleman accompanied them to Wilmington, N. C. During the whole of the journey, Mrs. Maroney acted, metaphorically, as if sitting on thorns. She did not seem at all pleased at the attention paid her by the gentleman. When he would ask her a question she would glance at him with a startled frightened look, and answer him very abruptly. She seemed much relieved when he bade them good-bye. Roch was sitting in the rear of the second-class car and could keep a strict watch on her movements. Not a person got on or off the train whom she did not carefully observe. Two or three times during the night she fell into a restless sleep, but always started up with a wild look of agony in her face. Day or night she seemed to have no peace, and by the time they reached Philadelphia she had become so haggard and worn as to appear fully ten years older than when she started. Roch telegraphed to Bangs from Baltimore, informing him of the time he would arrive in Philadelphia, and Green and Rivers were at the station to relieve him--Green to "shadow" Mrs. Maroney and Rivers to see what disposition would be made of her baggage, and if he found it transferred to Jenkintown to follow it and be on hand there when Mrs. Maroney arrived. Roch went to the office and reported to Bangs. He said that he had never seen so strange a woman; she had acted on the whole journey as if troubled with a guilty conscience. He felt confident she had something concealed, but could take no steps in the matter until he was absolutely certain, beyond a doubt, that his suspicions were correct. My orders were clear on this point--never make a decisive move unless you are positive you are right. If you are watching a person, and _know_ he has something concealed, arrest him and search his person; otherwise, no matter how strong your suspicions, do not act upon them, as a single misstep of this sort may lose the case, and is certain to put the parties on their guard, and in a few minutes to overthrow the labor of months. _CHAPTER XIX._ When Mrs. Maroney left the cars at the corner of Prime and Broad streets, she accidentally ran across De Forest, who was in the city on some business of his own. "Oh! I am so glad to meet you," exclaimed Mrs. Maroney. "And I am delighted to hear you say so," replied De Forest. The poor fellow had missed her sadly. She had parted from him in anger, and he felt cut to the quick by her cold treatment. He had at first determined to blot her memory from his heart, and for this purpose turned his attention to Miss Johnson, and tried to get up the same tender feeling for her with which Mrs. Maroney had inspired him, but he found it impossible. He missed Mrs. Maroney's black flashing eye, one moment filled with tenderness, the next sparkling with laughter. Then Mrs. Maroney had a freedom of manners that placed him at once at his ease, while Miss Johnson was rather prudish, quite sarcastic, and somehow he felt that he always made a fool of himself in her presence. Besides, Miss Johnson was marriageable, and much as De Forest loved the sex, he loved his freedom more. His morals were on a par with those of Sheridan's son, who wittily asked his father, just after he had been lecturing him, and advising him to take a wife, "But, father, whose wife shall I take?" Day after day passed wearily to him; Jenkintown without Mrs. Maroney was a dreary waste. He felt that "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," so when Mrs. Maroney greeted him so heartily he was overjoyed. "Have you been far South?" he asked. "Yes, indeed? Flora and I have not had our clothes off for five days, and we are completely exhausted; what a fright I must look!" "You look perfectly charming! at least to me you do," fervently answered De Forest. "Let me have your baggage transferred to the North Pennsylvania Railroad. In that way you can send it to Jenkintown without any trouble. You and Flora honor me with your company to Mitchell's, where we will have some refreshments, and then I will drive you home in my buggy." After a little persuasion Mrs. Maroney consented to the arrangement, and De Forest, once more himself, got their baggage checked to Jenkintown, and calling a hackman, as he had left his own team in the stable, they were driven to Mitchell's. Green followed them up and watched them from the steps of Independence Hall, while Rivers mounted the baggage-wagon and was driven to the North Pennsylvania station, and in less than an hour was in Jenkintown. De Forest ordered a substantial meal at Mitchell's, and when they had finished it, ordered his team and drove gaily out of the city, closely wedged in between Mrs. Maroney and Flora. When he went to get his team he hurriedly reported to the Vice-President that he had Mrs. Maroney at Mitchell's, and that her former coolness had vanished. As they drove up to Cox's, Mrs. Maroney was much pleased to meet Madam Imbert and Miss Johnson. The ladies bowed, and Mrs. Maroney requested the Madam to stop a moment, as she had something to tell her. Madam Imbert told Miss Johnson to walk on home, while she went to Cox's, and was warmly embraced by Mrs. Maroney. How De Forest envied her! De Forest drove up to the tavern with his team, and the rest of the party went into the house, where they were cordially welcomed by Mrs. Cox. Mrs. Maroney said she was tired almost to death, but wanted a few moments' conversation with the Madam before she changed her clothing. "Madam Imbert," she said, "you don't know how happy I am to meet you. I have just come from the South, where all my husband's friends are. He is now in deep trouble, and is held a prisoner in New York, at the instigation of the Adams Express Company, who charge him with having robbed them of some fifty thousand dollars. They charge him with committing this robbery in Montgomery, but hold him in New York. I went South for the purpose of getting a requisition for his immediate return to Montgomery. When I got there I was much surprised to find that nearly all his influential friends had taken the part of the company, and I now return almost crazed, without being able to get the necessary papers, and my poor husband must languish in jail, I don't know how long." "Mrs. Maroney, I can sympathize with you thoroughly. When my husband was prosperous we had hosts of friends--friends whom I thought would always be true to us; but the moment he got into trouble they were gone, and the only friend I now have is the abundance of money he left me." "In this respect I cannot complain," replied Mrs. Maroney, "as my husband gave me money enough to support me a lifetime; but it is so hard to be separated from him! I am fortunate in having found a friend like you, Madam Imbert, and I trust we may spend many hours together. I must write a letter to my husband to let him know I am again in the North." "I will take it down to the postoffice for you," said Madam Imbert. "Oh, no, I thank you, I will not put you to the trouble; Josh. is going down to Stemples's, and he will post it for me." Madam Imbert could not well stay longer as Mrs. Maroney seemed very tired. So she bade her good-bye, Mrs. Maroney promising to call on her the next day. She was not satisfied with what she had accomplished, and feared that Mrs. Maroney had some secret arrangement under way. As she walked musingly along, she met Rivers in a place where no one appeared in sight. "Rivers, I wish you would keep a sharp lookout on Cox's to-night. I think they are up to something, but what, I can't find out. Will you?" "Certainly," replied Rivers; "I am pretty well tired out, but I can stand it for a week, if necessary." "There is another thing which ought to be attended to," said Madam Imbert. "Mrs. Maroney is writing a letter to her husband; I think it is an important one. Don't you think you could manage to get possession of it? She is going to send it to Stemples's by Josh., so you might get him drunk and then gain possession of it." "Leave that to me. I think I can work it all right," said Rivers, as they separated, no one being aware of their interview. Rivers went to Stemples's, and calling up every one in the bar-room, asked them to have a drink. Barclay and Horton were there, and as they swallowed their liquor, looked at each other and winked. Horton whispered: "Rivers is a little 'sprung' to-day." "D----d tight, in my opinion," replied Barclay. In a few moments Josh. came in, and in a very important tone asked for Stemples. "Stemple sout! Hellow, Josh., that you?" said Rivers, slapping him on the shoulder. "I've taken a leetle too much bitters to-day, but I'm bound to have another horn before I go home. Come and have something?" "Where is Stemples?" reiterated Cox. "Oh, he's up stairs. Come and have a drink?" Josh. willingly assented, and with Barclay and Horton they went up to the bar. Rivers seized the whisky-bottle as the barkeeper handed it down, and filled his glass to the brim. Josh., Horton, and Barclay took moderate quantities of the liquor. "Drink hearty, boys," said Rivers, "I am going to have a good horn to go to bed on." Josh. looked closely at him, and then turned and winked knowingly to Barclay and Horton. The moment he turned, Rivers changed glasses with him, emptied out nearly all the liquor that Cox had put into his glass, and filled it with water. "Here, boys, drink hearty! Ain't you going to drink up?" Thus admonished, all four raised their glasses and drained them at a draft. Josh. swallowed down the brimming glass of pure whisky without a wink, and it must be admitted that, to his credit as a toper, he never noticed the difference. They had two or three drinks on about the same basis before Stemples came down. Josh. was standing with the letter in his hand ready to give it to him when he came in. When Stemples came in Rivers snatched the letter from Josh.'s hand and said: "Here, Stemples, is a letter for you!" and handed it to him. Cox was in a condition not to mind trifles, and scarcely knew whether he did or did not give the letter to Stemples. So long as he had it, that was all he wanted. Rivers, quick as a flash, had read the direction on the letter: "Nathan Maroney, Eldridge Street Jail, New York." Stemples took the letter and placed it carelessly in a pigeon-hole, behind a small, railed-off place just at the end of the bar. Josh. started home with Barclay and Horton. Rivers accompanied them a short distance and then returned to Stemples's. He looked through the windows and saw that the bar-room was completely deserted. He peered around and found that both Stemples and the barkeeper were in the stable harnessing up the horses, bent on going to a ball at a neighboring town. He glanced around in all directions until he was sure there was no fear of detection, and then stealthily entered the bar-room. He noiselessly crossed the floor, went behind the railing, pulled the much desired letter from the pigeon-hole and, with his treasure, returned safely to the street without detection. He returned to his boarding-house, procured a lamp and went directly to his room. He then dexterously opened the letter in such a manner that no trace was left to show that it had been tampered with, and tremblingly proceeded to read it, filled with the hope that the mystery would be solved by its contents. He read as follows: "MY DEAR HUSBAND:--I know it will pain you to learn that a notice of our marriage has been published in Montgomery. It has caused a great many of our old friends to turn away from us, among others Mrs. May, who was the first one to inform me, and who grossly insulted me and fairly ordered me out of her house. Who could have spread the news? I think the only true friend you now have in Montgomery is Mr. Porter. Patterson swindled me in the bargain for the livery stable, and Charlie May is, you know, as variable as the weather in the North; but Mr. Porter did me many kind turns without seeking to make anything out of me. Flora and I arrived in Jenkintown this afternoon thoroughly tired out. I could not get the requisition. I will write fully to-morrow or the next day. "I have all safe in the trunk. Left ------ at hotel in Athens. I afterward found it convenient to alter my bustle and put paper into it and strips of old rags. It set well, but I was tired when I got home with it. "Your loving wife." Rivers scribbled off a copy of the letter and then sealed it up again. He walked back to Stemples's and found a party in the wagon waiting for the barkeeper to close up and go to the ball with them. Rivers, still pretending to be drunk, staggered up to the door of the bar-room, which was just about to be closed, and walked in. There was no one present but the barkeeper; the people in the wagon were yelling to him to hurry up. "Give me a drink," said Rivers. "You have had enough for one night, it seems to me," remarked the barkeeper. "No," said Rivers, "just give me one drink and I'll go!" As the barkeeper turned to take down the bottle, Rivers flipped the letter, which he had in his hand, over towards the pigeon-hole; it just missed its mark and fell on the floor. "What's that?" exclaimed the barkeeper, turning hastily around, "a rat?" "No, a mouse, I guess!" said Rivers. "I declare, if that mouse didn't knock a letter out of the pigeon-hole!" remarked the barkeeper as he picked it up and put it in its place. "Hurry up, Rivers, I want to go!" Rivers swallowed his drink and went off well pleased with his success. His work was not done yet, as Madam Imbert had requested him to keep a watch on Cox's house. He walked along in the direction of Cox's, and felt almost oppressed by the perfect stillness of the night. It was not broken even by the barking of watch-dogs. The whole place seemed wrapped in slumber. When he reached the house, he walked carefully around for about an hour, when a light in the second story--the only one he had seen--was extinguished. He then crawled up close to the house, where he could hear every movement within; but all he heard was the shrill voice of Mrs. Cox, occasionally relieved by snorts from Cox, and he concluded that all that was transpiring at Cox's was a severe curtain lecture, brought about through his instrumentality. At two A. M. he returned to his boarding-house, wrote out his report for Bangs, enclosing the copy of Mrs. Maroney's letter, and retired after an exciting day's work. _CHAPTER XX._ On the following day Mrs. Maroney called on Madam Imbert, and together they strolled through the pleasure grounds. Each narrated her sorrows, and each wanted the support and friendship of the other. Madam Imbert's story we will let pass. Mrs. Maroney dwelt on her husband's hardships, and her conversation was largely a repetition of what she had said the day before. She spoke of her husband as a persecuted man, and said: "Wait till his trial is over and he is vindicated! Then the Adams Express will pay for this. The Vice-President has made the affair almost a personal one, but when Nat. is liberated the Vice-President will get his deserts. When he falls, mortally wounded with a ball from my husband's pistol, he will discover that Nathan Maroney is not to be trifled with. In the South we have a few friends left, and Mr. McGibony, a detective, is one of them. I think I can trust him. He was to have come North to escort my husband to Montgomery, if the Governor had granted the requisition; but he would not, and Maroney will hear of my failure to-day, as I wrote to him last evening. De Forest is a useful friend, and I think him also a very handsome man. I left Montgomery, feeling very unhappy, and was obliged to go to Athens and Danielsville. I was so exhausted that I had to stop a day at Augusta to rest. I had some valuables concealed on my person, and they were so heavy as to greatly tire me. At Augusta I was forced to alter my arrangements for carrying them, and arrived in Philadelphia completely worn out. I can assure you it was with feelings of the greatest pleasure that I met De Forest. He very kindly took charge of my baggage, and brought Flora and me out in his buggy. I am so glad to be here once more." As both ladies were tired, they walked over to some benches placed in a summer house, and took seats. Miss Johnson and Flora had been with them, but strolled off. Mrs. Maroney kept up the conversation, on unimportant topics, for some time, and then suddenly turned to Madam Imbert and said: "You must have had to conceal property at times! Where did you hide it?" Madam Imbert felt that now the trying moment for her had arrived. She knew that Mrs. Maroney had the stolen money in her possession, and that if she could only prevail on her to again conceal the money on her person, she could seize and search her; but Mrs. Maroney had said she could not carry it around, and so was obliged to change its hiding place. If she endeavored to prevail on her to secrete it on her person, she might suspect her motives, and hide it where it would be hard to find, so she answered in an indifferent tone; "Oh, yes, I have often hidden valuables! Sometimes I have placed them in the cellar, and at other times, waiting until all was quiet, I have stolen out into the garden, at a late hour of the night, and secreted them." Mrs. Maroney looked her square in the eyes, but she did not alter a muscle under the scrutiny. "Your advice is good," she said, in a musing tone. Madam Imbert would gladly have offered to assist her, but did not, at the time, feel safe in offering her services. She determined to act as quickly as possible, and to try and discover where she would secrete the money, as, from her actions, it was evident it was not yet hidden. As they sat talking Madam Imbert pretended to be taken with a sudden pain in the neighborhood of her heart. She was so sick that Mrs. Maroney had to assist her to Stemples's. She explained to Mrs. Maroney that she was subject to heart disease, and was frequently taken in a like manner. When they got to the tavern she requested Mrs. Maroney to send Miss Johnson to her, which she did, and then walked slowly homeward. In about three-quarters of an hour Miss Johnson called at Cox's, and reported that the Madam was much better, and was sleeping soundly. She had become lonely, and had started out to get Flora and take a walk. As soon as she entered the sitting room at Cox's, on her return, she found no one there but the children. In a moment Mrs. Cox came up stairs and joined her. She looked quite flurried, and seemed not to be particularly pleased at Miss Johnson's presence. Miss Johnson had just made known her desire for Flora's company, when Rivers (whom Madam Imbert had seen and instructed to find out what Josh. was doing,) came in, in his usual rollicking way, and asked Mrs. Cox where Josh. was. "He is out in the garden at work," said Mrs. Cox. At almost the same moment Josh. yelled up from the cellar: "That you, Rivers? I'll join you at Stemples's, by-and-by." It was immediately plain to Miss Johnson and Rivers that something was going on in the cellar which they did not want outsiders to know about. Miss Johnson remained with the children about half an hour, when Josh. and Mrs. Maroney came up from the cellar, perspiring freely, and looking as though they had been hard at work. Josh. started out to keep his appointment, evidently longing for a drink, and Miss Johnson, after a short conversation with Mrs. Maroney, went out with Flora. She did not remain long away, soon bringing Flora home, and then proceeding to the hotel to report to Madam Imbert. Rivers had already reported, and Madam Imbert was confident they were secreting the money in the cellar, so she determined to report to Bangs at once. In the afternoon she had so far recovered as to be able to go to Philadelphia to consult her physician. At least she so informed Mrs. Maroney. Before going she walked over to see if Mrs. Maroney would not accompany her, but found her tired and weary, and in no humor for a ride. She therefore returned to Stemples's, hired his team and drove into the city alone. She reported to Bangs, and got back in time for supper. In the evening she called on Mrs. Maroney and had with her a long conversation. What, with Rivers and De Forest, and Madam Imbert and Miss Johnson, very little happened at Cox's that was not seen and reported to Bangs. Mrs. Maroney called the property she wished to conceal her own, but we concluded that it was the stolen money. For four days all went quietly in Jenkintown; Mrs. Maroney made no allusions to her property, and passed the greater portion of the day either with Madam Imbert or with De Forest. On the fifth day she received a letter from her husband requesting her to come to New York, and to bring a good Philadelphia lawyer with her. She made known to Madam Imbert, and De Forest, the contents of the letter. De Forest found that he wanted to go to the city in the morning, and made arrangements to accompany her with his buggy. At her earnest request Madam Imbert accompanied them. They drove to Mitchell's, had some refreshments, and then separated. Green, of course, was at Mitchell's when they arrived, prepared to follow Mrs. Maroney. Madam Imbert went to the Merchants's Hotel and reported to Bangs, while De Forest reported to the Vice-President. Here were two persons acting in the same cause, and yet De Forest was profoundly ignorant of Madam Imbert's true character. Mrs. Maroney proceeded to a lawyer's office in Walnut street. Green saw the name on the door, and knew that it was the office of a prominent advocate. I will not mention his name, as it is immaterial. She remained in the office for over an hour, and then returned to Mitchell's, where the party had agreed to rendezvous. After dinner they drove back to Jenkintown. The following morning the rain poured in torrents, but Mrs. Maroney took the early train and went to the city, "shadowed" by Rivers. At Philadelphia he turned her over to the watchful care of Green. In Camden she was joined by her lawyer, and on arriving in New York went directly with him to the Eldridge street jail. All had gone well with White and Maroney. They had grown a little more friendly, though White was very unsocial, and seemed to prefer to keep by himself. Maroney had got Shanks to do several favors for him, and was very thankful for his kindness. Shanks was busily employed in carrying letters to White's lawyers, and bringing answers. The reader has already been informed with regard to the character of those communications. White and Maroney were engaged in a social game of euchre when Mrs. Maroney and her lawyer arrived. Maroney did not have a very great regard for his wife, but any one, at such a time, would be welcome. He greeted her warmly, shook hands with the lawyer, and requested him to be seated while he held a private conversation with his wife. He drew her to one side, and they had a long, quiet conversation. In about an hour he called his lawyer over, and they consulted together for over two hours. White was miserably situated. He could see all that went on, even to the movement of their lips as they conversed, but could not hear a word. As soon as the interview was over Mrs. Maroney left the jail--the lawyer remaining behind--went to Jersey City, and took the train to Philadelphia. Green telegraphed Bangs that she was returning, and he had Rivers at Camden to meet the train and relieve Green. She arrived in Philadelphia too late for the Jenkintown train, but hired a buggy at a livery stable, and had a boy drive her out and bring the horse back. Rivers was looking around for a conveyance, when a gardener whom he knew, and who lived a few miles beyond Jenkintown, drove along. "Going out to Jenkintown?" he asked. "Yes," replied the gardener. "Give me a ride?" "Of course; jump in." And he was soon being rattled over the pavement in the springless lumber-wagon. He tried to keep up a conversation, but the words were all jostled out of his mouth. The weather had cleared up, and he had a delightful drive out to Jenkintown. He stopped the gardener twice on the road and treated him to whisky and cigars, and they arrived shortly after Mrs. Maroney. "There must be something up," thought he, "or she would not be in such a hurry to get home; what can it be?" In Eldridge street jail, one day was nearly a repetition of another. White acted always the same, and said very little to any one except to Shanks, whom he always drew to one side when he wished to converse with him. Maroney conversed with White a good deal, and was disappointed on finding that he could not play chess. White would occasionally join in a game of cards, but kept separate from the rest of the prisoners as much as possible. He had paid his footing, five dollars, the fee required to gain admission to "_the order_" as the prisoners call it. He found the "order" to be narrowed down to drinkables and smokables for all the prisoners initiated. Maroney had joined before, and said to White, "I don't think much of it. These people care for nothing but drinking and eating, while I have something else to think about." By degrees Maroney conversed more and more with White; sometimes he would forget and talk loudly. White would look up and say, "Hush! walls have ears sometimes, don't talk so loud." At other times he would say, "Maroney, I am not a talking man; I keep my own counsel, and have discovered that the worst thing a man can do is to be noisy." Maroney would try and mollify him by saying, "Oh, pshaw! I didn't say any thing in particular." "You can't tell who the spies are here," White would reply, "do you see those prisoners? well, how do you know but that some of them are spies? I would not trust one of them. I have a big fight under way myself; I know the men who are opposing me will take every advantage, and I propose to keep quiet and wait." Maroney would remark, "But no one heard?" "Hush," White would whisper, "how many times must I tell you that walls may have ears?" In time he had Maroney afraid almost of his own shadow. When White wanted to tell Shanks any thing, he would take him by the arm and draw him to one side; his lips would be seen to move, but not a word could be heard. One morning Maroney said, "White, I would like to have a boy like yours to attend to my business; he is a good boy, never talks loud, and I could make him useful in many ways." "Yes," replied White, dryly, "Shanks is a good boy, and minds what I say. Suppose they should bring him on the stand to prove I said a certain thing, Shanks would be a bad witness, because he never hears any thing I don't want him to." "I see he is shrewd, and I like him for that," said Maroney. The days passed slowly away, White always attending to his own business, which seemed very important. One day Maroney said to White, "I'm tired, let's take a turn in the hall?" They made several trips, conversing on general topics, when Maroney lowered his voice and said: "White, couldn't you and I get out of this jail?" "I have not thought of it, have you?" "Yes," answered Maroney, eagerly; "all we need is two keys. If we were to get an impression of the lock Shanks could have them made, couldn't he?" "Yes," replied White, "you can get almost any thing made in New York if you have the money with which to pay for it. But if we made the attempt and failed, what would be the consequences? We should be put down and not allowed out of our cells, and I should be debarred from seeing Shanks; so suppose we think it over, and watch the habits of the jailors." Every day Maroney broached the subject, but White always had some objections to offer, and Maroney finally abandoned the project in disgust. There is no doubt but that Eldridge street jail at the time could have been easily opened. Little by little Maroney sought to place more confidence in White, but found his advances always repelled. White would say, "Maroney, let every man keep his own secrets, I have all I can do to attend to my own affairs. My lawyer has been to see me and my prospects, as he presents them, are not very flattering. Shanks says they are likely to get the better of me if I am not careful. I feel so irritable that I can scarcely bear with any one." Maroney was more than ever desirous of talking with him, but White said: "I don't want to talk; let every man paddle his own canoe. If I were out of trouble, it would be a different thing, but my lawyer at present gives me a black lookout." Shanks came in and White drew him to one side. They had a long talk and then White paced restlessly up and down the hall. "What's the matter, White? have you bad news?" enquired Maroney. "Yes, I am deeply in the mire, but let me alone and I'll wriggle myself out." _CHAPTER XXI._ I now determined to strike a blow at Maroney. Some idea of its power may be gained by imagining how a prisoner would feel upon receiving the news that, while he is languishing in prison, his faithless wife is receiving the unlawful attentions of a young gallant, and that everything indicates that they are about to leave for parts unknown, intending to take all his money and leave him in the lurch. This was exactly the rod I had in pickle for Maroney. I applied it through the following letter: "Nathan Maroney, Eldridge Street Jail, New York: "Ha! ha! ha! * * * * Your wife and the fellow with the long mustache and whiskers are having a glorious time, driving around in his buggy. "You have heard of Sanford? He loves you well. He is the one who moves the automaton with the whiskers and long mustache, and gives _your wife_ a _lover_ in Jenkintown. "You should _feel happy_, and so do I. The garden at night; honeyed words; the parting kiss! She loves him well! I _know you are happy_! "Good-bye! * * * * REVENGE!" Having written the document, I had it mailed from Jenkintown, through the assistance of friend Rivers. At Jenkintown all was going smoothly. De Forest was more loving than ever, and Madam Imbert found it almost impossible to have a private conversation with Mrs. Maroney, as she seemed always with him. When De Forest came to Philadelphia I had it suggested to him that it would be advisable to get Mrs. Maroney to walk or drive out with him in the evening. He immediately acted on the suggestion, and before long could be found almost every evening with her. Mrs. Maroney did not again allude to her valuables, and evidently felt perfectly easy in regard to them, considering that she had them safely secreted. One day, while Mrs. Maroney was in the cellar, Madam Imbert called. Mrs. Cox met her and said: "Sister is in the cellar; I will call her up." "Never mind," remarked the Madam, "I'll just run down to her," and stepped towards the cellar door. Mrs. Cox quickly interposed and said: "Oh! no; I will call her!" This little incident showed Madam Imbert that something was going on which they did not want her to know. Mrs. Maroney soon came up, said she was delighted to see her, and did not look at all confused. Rivers, Cox, Horton and Barclay had formed themselves into a quartette club and were nearly always together. Rivers's arm had not healed as yet, and he still wore it in a sling. Cox and he were on the best of terms, and the Jenkintowners regarded him, as well as the other detectives, as permanent residents. De Forest was happy beyond expression, and Mrs. Maroney seemed equally so. She wrote letters daily to her husband and often spoke of Madam Imbert and how deeply she felt for her, bowed down with care and alone in the world. She very seldom alluded to De Forest and never spoke of his being her constant companion. While all was passing so pleasantly in Jenkintown, a terrible scene was being enacted in Eldridge street jail. I had not posted White as to my intention of sending the anonymous letter to Maroney, as I wished to find what effect Maroney's conduct would have on him. The day after Rivers had posted the letter, Shanks brought it to Maroney when he came with the morning's mail. Besides my letter there was also one from Mrs. Maroney. Maroney looked at the letters and opened the one from his wife first. He read it, a pleased smile passing over his face, and then laid it down and picked up my letter. He scanned the envelope carefully and then broke the seal. White was watching him and wondered why he examined the letter so closely. As he read, White was astonished to see a look of deep anguish settle on his face. He seemed to be sinking from some terrible blow. He recovered himself, read the letter over and over again, then crushed it in his hand and threw it on the floor. He sprang to his feet and walked rapidly up and down the hall; but returned and picked up the letter before the wily White could manage to secure it. White wondered what it was that troubled Maroney. He whispered to Shanks: "What the d----l is the matter with Maroney? He has received bad news. I should like, in some way, to find out what it is. The old man will be wondering what is in that note, and when I report, will blame me for not finding out." Maroney appeared almost crazed. He forced the letter into his pocket and went into his cell without a word; but his face was a terrible index of what was passing in his mind. After a little, White and Shanks walked by his cell and saw him lying on the bed, with his face hidden in the clothes. He did not come out for over an hour; but when he did, he _seemed_ perfectly calm. He was very pale, and it was astonishing to see the change wrought in him in so short a time. White met him as he came out, but did not appear to notice any difference in him. "Here, Maroney, have a cigar; they are a new brand. Shanks is a superior judge of cigars. I think these are the best I have yet had, and I believe I will get a box; I can get them for eleven dollars, and they are as good as those they retail at twenty cents a piece." Maroney held out his hand mechanically and took one. He put it into his mouth, and without lighting it, commenced to chew it. White, in one of his reports to me, says: "A man often shows his desperation by his desire to get more nicotine than usual." Maroney did not converse with White, and only said he wanted to write. He sat down and wrote a note, but immediately tore it up. He wrote and tore up several in this way, but finally wrote one to suit him. White quietly told Shanks that when Maroney gave him the letter he was writing, he must be sure and see its contents. Of course Shanks always obeyed orders, and never neglected anything his uncle told him to do, even if it was to forget something that had happened. In this way he was extremely useful. It was getting late, and the jailer had told him two or three times that he must go, but he did not take his departure until Maroney had sealed the letter and handed it to him. Maroney was in a terrible condition, and White found that it would be impossible to get anything out of him that night, as the whole affair was too fresh in his mind; so he got some brandy he had in his cell, and asked him to take a drink. Maroney eagerly swallowed a brimming glassfull, and took four or five drinks in rapid succession. He seemed to suffer terrible anguish, and his whole frame trembled like a leaf. In a few minutes he retired to his cell, evidently determined to seek oblivion in sleep. We will now follow Shanks to his hotel, where he is engaged in opening Maroney's letter. Although the letter was very securely sealed, he accomplished the task without much difficulty, and read as follows: "MADAM: I have received a strange letter. What does it mean? Are you playing false to me? Who is this man you have with you? where does he come from? Are you such a fool as not to know he is a tool of the Adams, and that you are acting with him? I cannot be with you. If I had my liberty I would hurry to your side, snatch you from this villain, and plunge my knife so deep into him that he would never know he had received a blow!!! Why are you so foolish? Do you love me? You have often said you did. You know I have done all in my power to make you happy, and have placed entire confidence in you. Why have you never told me about this man? Listen to me, and love me as before, and all will go well. Tell me all, 'and tell me it is not so bad as it is told to me!' Spurn this scoundrel, and have confidence in me forever!!!" NAT. Shanks hurriedly copied this letter, and mailed it after making another copy, which he forwarded to me at the same time. In the morning he gave White a copy of the letter, which revealed to him the cause of Maroney's anguish. Maroney came to White in the morning, and found him moody, and not inclined to talk. Still he clung to him as his only hope. It was a strange fascination which White had acquired over Maroney. Maroney appeared to feel better, although he was still very pale, and seemed to be comforted by White's presence, although he did not say a word about his trouble. We will now make a trip which Maroney would like to make, and return to Jenkintown. Maroney's letter arrived by the five P. M. mail, at Jenkintown, the day following the one on which Shanks mailed it. In the morning Mrs. Maroney had spent some time with Madam Imbert, and then had gone for a drive with De Forest. They went to Manayunk, had a fish dinner washed down with a bottle of champagne, and drove back as happy and free from care as two children. Mrs. Maroney left the buggy at Cox's at half-past four, and found Madam Imbert waiting for her. The Madam noticed that she was a little exhilarated. After they had conversed for some time she asked Mrs. Maroney out for a walk, and they strolled leisurely down to the station. The train from Philadelphia had just passed through, and Mrs. Maroney said: "Let us walk up to Stemples's and see if any letters have come for us." When they reached Stemples's, Mrs. Maroney went in and received a letter. Madam Imbert was not so fortunate. "Oh!" laughed Mrs. Maroney, "I have seen the time, when I was single, that I would receive half a dozen letters a day; but this is more valuable than them all, as it is from my husband. Heigh ho! I wonder what my darling Nat. has to say." At the same time she broke the seal, and then proceeded to read the letter. Madam Imbert walked a little way behind her, as was her habit. She was a very tall, commanding woman, and made this her habit so that she could glance at anything that Mrs. Maroney might read as they walked along. It was a part of her business, and so she was not to be blamed for it. Mrs. Maroney flushed at the first word she read, but as she went on her color heightened, until she was red as a coal of fire. "Why," she muttered, "Nat., you're a d----d fool!" When angered she always used language she had acquired in her former life. Madam Imbert heard her, and was anxious to see the contents of the letter, but could only catch a word here and there as she looked over Mrs. Maroney's shoulder. Mrs. Maroney glanced over the letter hurriedly, and then read it again. She muttered to herself, and the Madam hoped she was going to tell her what it was that caused her hard words; but she did not, and soon folded the letter up and put it away. As they neared Cox's she said: "Please excuse me; I feel unwell, and fear I have been too much in the sun to-day." At this moment De Forest walked out of Josh.'s. "Mrs. Maroney," said he, "will you come to the garden this evening?" Madam Imbert turned to leave. Mrs. Maroney looked him full in the face with flashing eyes, clenched her little hand, and in a voice hoarse from passion, exclaimed: "What do you want here, you scoundrel?" [Illustration: "_Mrs. Maroney looked him full in the face with flashing eyes, clenched her little hand, and in a voice hoarse from passion, exclaimed: 'What do you want here, you scoundrel?'_"--Page 190.] If a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, De Forest could not have been more astonished; he was struck speechless; his powers of articulation were gone. She said not one word more, but stalked into the house and closed the door with a bang that made him jump. Madam Imbert wended her way to the tavern, but De Forest stood for fully two minutes, seemingly deprived of the power of motion. He then darted eagerly toward the door, determined to have an explanation, but was met by Josh., who said: "You have done something that has raised the d----l in Mrs. Maroney, and she will play the deuce with you if you don't clear out. If you try to speak to her, she will pistol you, sure!" "But what have I done?" asked De Forest. "It is only an hour since I left her, and we were then on the best of terms. I have _always_ treated her well!" "Come, come!" said Josh., "don't stand talking here. People will see we are having a fuss." And he took De Forest by the arm and led him toward Stemples's. Madam Imbert had met Rivers on her way, and sent him to find out how affairs were progressing. He arrived at this moment. "Hello," said he to Josh., "I was just coming to see you." "Yes! You have come at the wrong time. Mrs. Maroney is as mad as blazes, and would have shot De Forest if it had not been for me. I can't tell what for, but, by the Eternal, she would have done it!" De Forest was all in a maze. He could not imagine what he had done to cause the woman he loved to become so excited as to desire to kill him. They all three went to the hotel, and De Forest, although generally not a drinking man, called them all up and treated. The fun of the whole thing was that De Forest had not the slightest idea what it was that had caused the trouble. Only an hour before she was by his side in the buggy, and they were so happy and so loving! She had been cooing like a turtle dove, and now, "Oh, wondrous change," she wished to shoot him. He could not remember having uttered a single word that would wound the most sensitive nature. After tea, Madam Imbert walked down to Cox's, first seeing Rivers and directing him to keep a close guard on the house that night, and especially to watch the cellar-window, so as to know if anything took place in the cellar. On arriving at Cox's she was shown into Mrs. Maroney's room. Mrs. Maroney was in bed, but did not have her clothes off. She had not been crying, but fairly quivered with suppressed excitement. She rose and closed the door, and then burst out with, "Why, Madam Imbert, have you ever heard of so foolish a man as my husband? Who knows where De Forest comes from? Do you?" "No," answered the Madam; "he was here when I came. Don't you know?" "No. All I know is that I became acquainted with him here, when I first came, and I found him so serviceable that I kept up the acquaintance; But," she broke out in a wild, excited manner, "D--n him! I'll put a ball through him if he dares to injure me." "Keep cool, keep cool! What does it matter? You are excited; it is a bad time to talk," urged Madam Imbert. "But I must talk: I shall suffocate if I don't. Madam Imbert, I must tell you all." "No! You must not talk now. Calm yourself! You must keep cool! Think of your poor husband languishing in prison, and remember that any false move of yours may prove to his disadvantage." "But what makes him charge me with receiving improper attentions from De Forest? I know I have sometimes been foolish with him, but he is soft and I have moulded him to my purpose. He has been my errand-boy, nothing more; and now my husband thinks me untrue to him, when I would gladly die for him, if it would help him. It is too hard to bear, too hard!!" Madam Imbert had had the forethought to bring a bottle of brandy with her, so she advised: "Don't make things worse than they are; you had better say no more until morning. Here, have a little brandy; I saw you were nervous, and so brought a bottle with me; take some, and then go to bed. After a good sound sleep you will be able to see your way much clearer than now." "Oh, thank you," said Mrs. Maroney, as she eagerly seized the glass and gulped down a large quantity. Madam Imbert started to leave. "Please don't go yet; I must tell you all," pleaded Mrs. Maroney. "Wait till to-morrow," said Madam Imbert, "it is a bad time to talk." "Madam Imbert, you are now my only friend, and I would like to have your opinion as to who it is that is writing these letters about me to my husband. If I knew the dirty dog, I would put a ball through him. I am not fairly treated. I am Maroney's wife, and he should not believe such slanders against me. As long as I live I will do all I can for him." "Mrs. Maroney," said Madam Imbert, getting up, "I must not listen to you; I will go." "Please don't! Who can it be that is writing these reports from Jenkintown?" again enquired Mrs. Maroney. "That is a point upon which it is hard for me to enlighten you," replied the Madam; "it might be Barclay or some of Josh.'s friends. Josh. is a good clever fellow, for a brother-in-law, but I would not trust him too much; he is a little inclined to talk, and Barclay may have drawn something from him and written to your husband; I know De Forest don't like him." "I will see Josh. at once, and find out about this Barclay," said Mrs. Maroney. "You had better wait till morning," said Madam Imbert, as she rose to leave the room; "I must go to bed, and you had better follow my example." Mrs. Maroney began to show the effects of the brandy she had been drinking, but she took Madam Imbert's arm and went to the door with her. It was now ten o'clock, but she requested the Madam to take a turn in the garden with her. They had hardly taken two steps before Mrs. Maroney stumbled over a man concealed at the side of the house. It was Rivers, but he was up and off before the frightened ladies had a chance to see him. Madam Imbert screamed lustily, although she well knew who it was. "D----n him," said Mrs. Maroney, "that's that De Forest; I will kill him, sure! What was he doing here?" Madam Imbert remarked that it was either he or Barclay. "I know what he is looking after," said Mrs. Maroney; "I see through the whole thing! De Forest is a tool of the Vice-President; he thinks he has got my secrets, but I'll be after him yet." Her voice was hoarse and dry, and plainly showed the effects of the brandy. Madam Imbert walked out of the garden and went to the tavern, while Mrs. Maroney went into the house. Rivers, when he was disturbed in his watching of the cellar window, rushed straight to Stemples's, where he found Barclay, Horton and Cox. "How do you do, boys?" said he, "come and have a drink; I have just come in from seeing my girl; she is a good one, and I think will make me happy; had a long walk, though; over two miles, and I think I deserve a glass." Josh. was telling about Mrs. Maroney's quarrel. Rivers heard him patiently through, and they had two or three drinks, when Mrs. Cox stalked into the room. All the women in Jenkintown seemed on the rampage, at least all those we are dealing with. "Josh., you lazy, good for nothing fellow, I have been looking all over the village for you!" "Why, you ought to know you could find me here," said Josh. "Come home at once; sister wants you to watch the house to-night! some one has been lurking around there, and she wants you to find out who it is." "Well," said Josh., carelessly, "I'll come." Rivers now spoke up: "I am not very busy just now, and I will watch with you." "Will you?" said Mrs. Cox, in a pleased tone; "would be much obliged to you if you would; Josh. has been drinking so much that I can't place much reliance on him." "Certainly," said Rivers, and the trio started for the scene of action. Mrs. Maroney was in bed when they arrived, but she hastily rose and came to the door in her night dress. "Now, Josh.," she commanded, "I want you to keep a close watch, and if De Forest, or any one else comes by the cellar-window, just you think they are coming to rob your house, and fire! Here is my revolver." "I will take care of that," said Rivers, "I am going to stay up and watch with Josh." "Oh, thank you! Josh., you had better let Mr. Rivers have the revolver." She went in, and Josh. turned the revolver over to Rivers. They then secreted themselves where they could see any one coming into the yard. In less than an hour Josh. was snoring. At three in the morning Rivers roused him up, got him into the house, and then, thoroughly tired out, started for home. _CHAPTER XXII._ In the morning Jenkintown enjoyed the calm that always follows the storm. Madam Imbert called on Mrs. Maroney, and found her suffering from a severe headache. She said she feared she had taken too much champagne the day before, and believed that De Forest had attempted to get her drunk. She could not imagine why he watched the house. She was bound to have nothing more to do with him, as she was certain he was a tool of the Express Company. "And yet," she said, "I thought he was a man above that sort of business! I thought he would disdain to sell himself for such a purpose." Madam Imbert advised her to be patient, and to be careful not to do De Forest an injustice by judging him wrongfully. "You don't know," she remarked, "but that he really loves you, and was only trying to see if you were receiving other company." They conversed for some time on the subject, and Madam Imbert finally found that Mrs. Maroney was very much inclined to take her view of the subject. She said she really thought De Forest loved her, and perhaps she had been too hasty with him. It was Madam Imbert's best plan to take this course, as it would show what a disinterested friend she was. She wanted to keep watch on Cox's house, but in such a manner as not to excite suspicion. Mrs. Maroney said she would write to Nat. and explain the matter, but said she would like to find out who had written to her husband. Madam Imbert and she cogitated over the subject for some time, but could not decide upon any particular person. Finally Mrs. Maroney concluded she would take a nap, as she thought she would feel much brighter afterwards. She said she would write to her husband the first thing after dinner, and asked the Madam to call a little later and take a walk with her. De Forest remained in the hotel all the morning. He did not call on Mrs. Maroney, and vainly puzzled his brain to determine the cause of her excitement. He came into the bar-room, where he found Rivers, as serene as ever, and willing to console any one. In a few minutes Josh., Horton and Barclay arrived. The _posse_ talked over the trouble of the preceding night, and De Forest hoped that, as Josh. had come from the scene of action, he would be able to enlighten him as to the cause of Mrs. Maroney's strange conduct. But Cox was as much at a loss to account for her passion as he. Said he: "All I know is that she is a regular tartar, and no mistake! Whew! Didn't she rave though?" The Vice-President and I received the reports in Philadelphia, and had a quiet laugh over them. All was working to suit us. In the afternoon Madam Imbert walked out with Mrs. Maroney, who had just finished her letter to her husband. As they walked along she said, "I told my husband that I knew nothing about the man with the long mustache further than that he was living in Jenkintown before I left the South; that when I first arrived here he did several kind things for me, and had driven me into Philadelphia a few times when I could not get the train, but that you, Madam Imbert, had always accompanied me. I spoke of you as a perfect lady, and as being a true friend of mine, and that you often cautioned me against talking too much. I said that if it was De Forest he alluded to, I was perfectly safe in his company. I asked him if he thought it likely that I, whose interests were identical with his, would be likely to prove untrue to him, and told him he might rest perfectly assured that I would do nothing without his knowledge and consent." They walked to Stemples's and posted the letter. On the way they met De Forest, but Mrs. Maroney took no notice of him. After mailing the letter, they strolled through the pleasure grounds for some time. At last they separated, each taking their respective way home. At the tavern Madam Imbert was met by De Forest, who requested a private interview. She readily consented, and, after tea, met him in the sitting-room. De Forest related his sorrowful story, and asked her if she knew what had caused Mrs. Maroney to treat him so harshly. She said, "these things will happen once in a while; it is part of a woman's nature to take sudden and unaccountable freaks; but all will be right by-and-by." She quoted Scott's beautiful lines: "O Woman! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made: When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering Angel thou--" De Forest fervently hoped that, as she had brought "pain and anguish" to his brow, she would now become his "ministering angel," and went off somewhat comforted. Madam Imbert saw Mrs. Maroney in the evening and told her of the interview with De Forest. This made her feel quite happy, and she even remarked: "I think I have been too hard on the poor fellow." White and Maroney were together when Mrs. Maroney's letter arrived. Maroney read it carefully through and then went to his cell. In the afternoon, White observed him writing and directed Shanks to open the letter when he received it. Shanks did so and found it was to his wife. He wrote that he was happy to hear that she was still true to him, and to find that he had been deceived. He felt assured that the blow must have been aimed by some of his enemies. If he were at liberty he would find the man, but as he was not he would have to wait. He directed her to endeavor to find out who had sent the letter. As she assured him she would do nothing without his approval, he was contented. When I received a copy of his letter, I was convinced that he was trying to make the best of a bad bargain. He could not be spared from Eldridge street jail just at that time and had to trust his wife whether he would or not. White and he lived quietly together. He told White that he was confined at the instigation of the Adams Express, who accused him of stealing fifty thousand dollars from them. "But, of course," said he, "I am innocent!" Still, as I have before mentioned, he was anxious to break jail--an unusual inclination for an innocent man. About this time he happened to read in the papers an account of a robbery in Tennessee, in which a description of the stolen money and bills was given. As he and White were walking in the hall, he said to White: "White, I wonder if it would not be a good move to try some game in my case? Of course, I am innocent! I think the messenger, Chase, the guilty party, and I want to arrange some plan to throw suspicion on him or some one else; but (in an amusing tone) there is no one else. Chase received the money from me and put it into the pouch! Still, I can't prove this, as there were no witnesses. It will be my oath against his, and as the company have taken his part, he will have the best of it. It is a strange affair. Chase was at the counter checking off the packages as I put them in the pouch. He now says that he did not see all the packages, as they went in so quickly that he had all he could do to check them off. Strange, indeed! If I were checking off packages of such large amounts I think I should be likely to look at them, don't you? I wish in some way to prove Chase dishonest. At present it is even between us, but the company support him and leave me in the lurch." "Yes," said White, "it is just about as you say, an even thing between you; but the company have undoubtedly sided with Chase because you have the most money, and they think they can recover the amount from you or from your friends! But I don't see how you can clear yourself. If Chase only swears he did not receive the money, it will go hard with you." White thought that now Maroney would propose to him to get Shanks to have some duplicate keys of the company's pouch made; but apparently he did not yet feel fully certain that he could trust White. He broached the subject several times, but finally dropped it altogether. A few days after, Maroney had another talk with White and treated him with much more confidence than before. White said little, and was a good man to talk to. Maroney made no admissions, but all his expressions and manners showed guilt. White at least did not accept them as showing his innocence. He always pointed to Chase as the guilty party. Maroney frequently brought up his troubles as a topic of conversation with White; but White was professedly so employed with his own business that he said but little. All that Maroney said to him seemed to go in at one ear and out at the other. When he made a remark it was a casual one and had no bearing on the subject. This caused Maroney to talk still more, devising plans for throwing suspicion on Chase. White casually said: "What sort of a man is Chase? A smart, shrewd fellow who would pick up a money package if he saw it lying handy, and dispose of it?" "No," replied Maroney, slowly weighing every word. "I don't think he would. He is a pretty fair man; but the company have no right to make him a witness against me!" "Who are his friends?" enquired White. "His father lives in Georgia; he is a whole-souled old planter; has a good many slaves; but his property is much encumbered. Chase is a good fellow after all!" "By-the-by," asked White, "does he ever go to see the fancy girls?" "Yes, he does, occasionally," answered Maroney. "Would it not be a good plan to take four or five thousand dollars and get the girls to stuff it into his pants pocket; then get him drunk, and as he started away have some detective arrest him?" "Yes," answered Maroney, "it might be done, and Gus McGibony is the man to do it. He is a good friend of mine. If I were only out, I might do something. White, your idea is a good one, you are a splendid contriver; but I must find some one to carry out the plan. I have friends in Montgomery, and I think Charlie May would help me. No, he is too much under the influence of his wife! Patterson would help me some; but I think Porter is the best man for me!" "Porter? who is he?" "He is the clerk of the Exchange Hotel," said Maroney. "He would be a good man for you if you can trust him." "I know I can do that! he would do anything in the world for me." "He is just the man to be familiar with the girls. Clerks at hotels always are. Girls must often stop at the hotel, and he might arrange to get Chase into a room with one of them, and then the rest could be easily accomplished. Does Chase board at the Exchange?" "Yes," answered Maroney. "White, you're a genius! I have a good mind to write to Porter at once and lay your plan before him." White looked at him in astonishment. "Are you crazy?" said he; "would you trust such matters on paper? I _never_ do." "You are right again," exclaimed Maroney. They talked the affair over for several days, the trouble being to get a proper person to act as a go-between to arrange matters with Porter. Maroney asked White why he could not trust Shanks. "You could; but the trouble is he has never been in the South." "That would make but little difference." "No, now I think of it, I don't know as it would. He would only have to carry the messages, and Shanks always obeys orders." "Well, I will think it over," remarked Maroney; and the matter dropped, he evidently fearing that Shanks would get the money and clear out. One day he said: "White, I wonder if the Express Company would not settle the matter with me? I am not guilty of the theft, but things look blue for me. I have some money, and I think I will make a proposition to them." "You could not do a more foolish thing; they would at once conclude that you were certainly guilty, and make you suffer for it," argued White. White kept me informed of all that went on, and I had instructed him that we would make no compromise. The company did not care so much for the money, as of making an example of the guilty party. That would show the other employés what would be their fate if they were caught in similar peculations. About this time Maroney's brother came to New York, from Danielsville. He was a man of good standing, well-meaning, and honest in his intentions. Maroney had looked anxiously for his coming, as he supposed his brother would be able to effect his release on bail. He knew that his brother alone could not make the bail-bond good, as one hundred thousand dollars is a large sum to be raised, but supposed that by his influence he might get others to sign with him. I placed "shadows" on his brother's track, and they, with White on the inside, and Shanks on the outside, kept me fully informed of what he was intending to do. He appeared to feel very bad at finding his brother in jail, and evinced a desire to do all he could for him. He had a long interview with Maroney and his lawyer, but everything appeared against him. Maroney's brother had no property in New York, and the only way he could raise the necessary bail was by giving a mortgage on his property as security to some man in New York, and have him go on the bond. The matter was well canvassed between them, but finally, like all the other plans devised to effect his release, was abandoned as impracticable. The brother did not like to procure bail in this way, for if he did, and Maroney should run away, the Adams Express would prosecute the bondsmen, who in turn would foreclose the mortgage, and in all likelihood become the owners of his property. He would do a great deal for his brother, but felt that this was asking too much. His duty to his family would not permit him to run so great a risk, and he therefore returned home without accomplishing the object of his visit. So far, all my schemes had proved successful. White had weakened Maroney's confidence in his friends. I wanted him to see and feel that all those whom he considered his friends before the jail door closed upon him, were so no longer. One by one he saw them abandon him to his fate, till he had no one left on whom to rely, but White. His brother had come and gone without accomplishing anything. He feared that even his wife was untrue to him, and that she, instead of proving a safe guardian for his property, might at any moment leave with De Forest and the money. His wife had often spoken of a Madam Imbert, but he had never seen her, and knew not whether she was to be trusted. From his wife's correspondence, he was disposed to think favorably of her, and several times was on the point of sending word to his wife to pay him a visit and bring Madam Imbert with her. But what good would it do? After all, it was better to trust White. One day White turned to Maroney, after writing several letters and holding a long interview with Shanks, and said: "Maroney, I think I can procure bail. My lawyers have been working hard in my behalf, and one of them went to St. Louis to see my prosecutors. He found they would do nothing unless they got all their money back. Of course I could not give them that," said he with a wink, "as I haven't it; and so my lawyer was unable to do anything for me. Shanks, however, has just been in, and he has not been idle during the five days he has been absent. He has made arrangements with a party to go my bail, provided I will advance a considerable sum as security. Nothing is needed now but security, and I think I can manage it. I can give them some money, and they will then manage to get me out on straw bail. I can then loaf around town, enjoying myself, and if I cannot compromise the matter, or if I think that the trial will go against me, I can run away. In this way I shall lose my security, and my bondsmen will have to fight the bond; but still," said he, with a chuckle, the keen Yankee showing out, "but still I shall not do so badly, after all, as I shall have about twenty thousand dollars left to begin business with in a new place." Maroney was more than ever impressed with his ability, and began to think that White was now his only true friend, and the best man to help him out of his difficulty. He had now been in jail several months, and it was time to get matters fixed up. Why could he not trust White to help him? He was a good contriver, and apparently could be trusted. Still it would not do to be too certain, so he would quietly feel his way along. He gradually broached the subject to White by saying, "White, I feel very bad at the idea of your leaving me; after you go, all my friends will be away from me. I might rely on Porter's help, or perhaps on Patterson's. McGibony is a good fellow, and would willingly help me, but I can't trust him too far, as he could be easily pumped. Moreover, the great trouble is, that they are all down South. I can not take my wife from Jenkintown, and yet I feel as though the Adams Express were watching her. What must I do? You are a keen fellow; can't you help me when you get out? I have some money of my own, and I would gladly pay you for your trouble." "Well," said White, "I shall have all I can do to attend to my own business for the first four or five days I am out, but after that I might help you. I don't know as I shall be able to do you any good, but if I make an effort, we must have a clear understanding that my connection with the matter must never be known. If I wish to communicate with you I will send Shanks, who will be at once admitted to see you as an old friend. If I were you, I would not talk to any of your New York friends about it. They don't seem to care much for you, and very seldom come to see you. Your lawyer is not doing much for you, and it would be just as well not to let him into the secret either. Above all, you must not let your wife or Madam Imbert know any thing about it. I have had much trouble once or twice through women, and have determined never again to trust them. It is utterly impossible for a woman to keep a secret. She may love you to distraction, but confide a secret to her and she is never satisfied till she divulges it." Maroney eagerly listened to all White had to say, and then replied: "White, depend upon it, you are the right man for me! If you will only figure for me as well as you have done for yourself, you will have me out of jail in a very short time." "What do you want me to undertake?" "The first thing is to carry out the plan you proposed the other day--of placing the money on Chase's person. I will make the blow more telling by getting you to have a key made similar to the pouch-key, and putting it into his pocket at the same time. I have a fine drawing of the key and you can easily have it made. I know Chase is the guilty party, and this move will exonerate me and bring the proper person to justice. I am sorry for Chase, but he can't expect me to suffer for his crime. I will furnish you the necessary money to put into his pocket, and give you a letter to Gus. McGibony, who will arrest Chase at the proper moment." "That's easily arranged," said White, "and McGibony need not know any thing about the dodge. I shall need him only to make the arrest at the moment when the girl gives me the wink. The worst of the thing is, we shall be compelled to have a woman in the case any way; but I am acquainted with a splendid looking girl here, who may, perhaps, keep her mouth shut. I will send her to Montgomery, get her into the Exchange Hotel, and she will soon manage to draw Chase into her room. When he goes in I will get McGibony and have him arrested and searched as soon as he gets to his own room." "Capital! capital!!" said Maroney, jumping up and walking across the hall, rubbing his hands with glee. "White, if you succeed in this I will pay you well for it." "What kind of money was it the company lost?" asked White. "Oh! of course I don't know; I never saw it!" quickly answered Maroney, at the same time looking into White's face with an expression in his eye which showed that he wished to read his inmost thoughts. White took no notice of this look, but went on with apparent unconcern. "Well, one of the first things we must do is to find out what kind of money was stolen from the Express Company, procure bills of the same kind, and when they are found on Chase, he is gone, and his conviction is certain." "Yes! yes!" muttered Maroney, as the thought flashed through his mind, "can he really suspect me of having stolen the money?" "Yes, it would be a good plan. You might find out what banks the company received the money from and get some of their bills! It is a good thing to look after, any way." Maroney was not fully prepared to trust White, although he would eventually have to do it. If he had been scanned by a close observer, there would have been discovered in his mind a doubt of White's fealty, caused by the home-thrust he gave when he asked about the money. _CHAPTER XXIII._ At Jenkintown all was well. Mrs. Maroney had made up with De Forest and his present happiness was so great that he had entirely forgotten his past sorrow. He was very fond of Flora and enjoyed walking with her, especially when her mother was along. Madam Imbert sometimes drove into Philadelphia with Mrs. Maroney to do shopping, and De Forest was always their coachman. Mrs. Maroney was loyal to a promise she had made her husband, and never went out driving with De Forest unaccompanied by Madam Imbert. De Forest had only one seat to his buggy, and it was rather irksome to be conveying two ladies around all the time. He had but little room, seated between them, and as the weather was warm, he was often very uncomfortable. He was tall, and his knees were jammed closely against the dash-board; but he bore all the inconvenience manfully. It was always their custom to drive to Mitchell's when they went to the city. The ladies would alight here, while De Forest would stable his horses. At dinner time they would meet again and drive home. One day, while in the city, Madam Imbert said to Mrs. Maroney: "Wait here a few minutes for me, I want to get some money changed." She left Mrs. Maroney at Mitchell's and walked to Third street. Here she went into a bank and drew five hundred dollars I had left there for her and came out. She then walked up Third street and went into the office of Miller Bros., brokers, where she had the money changed into Eastern funds. Mrs. Maroney was smart. She had followed closely after Madam Imbert and acted the part of a "shadow." As the latter came out of the brokers' office and approached the corner of Chestnut street, Mrs. Maroney met her. "I am glad to meet you," said she; "I am on my way to Second street to get some goods. Did you get your money changed?" Madam Imbert was prepared. "Yes," said she, "but I did not have much. I have the most of my money in a safe place. At the Third street bank, they told me they did not have any Eastern funds and looked very queerly at me, so I went to the brokers' office and they finally changed it. A person has to be cautious, as it is sometimes very difficult to succeed. People ask questions at times that it is impossible for one to answer. You have never had to do so much in this way as I have! have you?" "No!" replied Mrs. Maroney, coloring deeply; "but I suppose I shall have to learn! I will tell you a secret of mine some time. You may be of great use to me, will you help me if you can?" "Yes," said Madam Imbert, recalling her poor husband languishing in confinement. "Your husband is like mine, both are in prison. I feel strongly drawn toward you and will do all I can for you. Oh! why can't I succeed in getting my darling free!" They had reached the dry-goods store and went in to make their purchases. I was desirous of impressing upon Mrs. Maroney the difficulties in the way of changing money, and my plan was successful beyond my expectations. She saw the trouble Madam Imbert had at the bank and at the brokers, and learned that bankers and brokers were liable to ask very pointed questions when changing money. If she had any idea of changing her stolen money she might be frightened out of it, and prefer to rely for assistance on Madam Imbert, who seemed an experienced hand. After they had made their purchases the ladies returned to Mitchell's and were driven home by De Forest. Madam Imbert spent the evening with Mrs. Maroney, but nothing of interest transpired. A day or two after, as they were seated in the garden, Mrs. Maroney took Madam Imbert partially into her confidence and gave her a sketch of her life, which, it must be confessed, as narrated by her, made her appear very pure and spotless. She said that Maroney met her a heart-broken widow, and that she married him only to prevent him from committing suicide, so desperately smitten was he; that they came to Montgomery, where Maroney was appointed agent of the Adams Express--a very lucrative position--and then continued: "Maroney had a good deal of money of his own, but did not talk much about it, in fact kept it a secret from every one but me. No one is obliged to state what he is worth. He was a very kind-hearted man and fairly idolized my little Flora. He was making arrangements to buy a plantation and a lot of slaves; had made money buying and selling horses, and owned a large interest in a livery stable in Montgomery. On a trip he made to the North he purchased a fast horse named "Yankee Mary," and used to take me out for a drive every day. Nat. is one of the best men that ever lived, but he is a little inclined to be careless. We were as happy and contented as could be, when--oh! unfortunate day for us!--the Adams Express was robbed and my husband was accused of the theft. He was arrested in Montgomery, but liberated on small bail. Soon afterward I came North on a visit, and when he came to bring me home he was arrested in New York and thrown into prison. I immediately went South, sold all his property and secreted the money about me, so that the Adams Express would not get hold of it. I have now the money secreted here; but there have been a great many small burglaries committed around here, and I am in constant dread of its being stolen. I don't dare leave Jenkintown for a night, and fervently wish my husband were out of jail to take care of it. What do you do with your money, Madam Imbert?" "I take care of it in various ways. Sometimes I carry large amounts concealed on my person; but the last time I was away I placed the most of it in a safe place." "I wish I knew of a safe place. If my husband were only out, he would soon find one," remarked Mrs. Maroney. "What are his prospects for getting out?" asked the Madam. "Well, I don't know, indeed; he is sometimes hopeful, sometimes in despair; he has been writing me lately of a friend of his named White, who was imprisoned a day or two after him. White has managed to make arrangements to effect his own release on bail, and when he gets out, has promised to assist Nat." "If White managed to get himself out, I should think him just the man to assist your husband," said Madam Imbert. "Nat. thinks so too; but he probably will not decide on any plan until White gets out, when they together may do something." A day or two after this long conversation, Mrs. Maroney again alluded to the robberies taking place in Jenkintown, and expressed much anxiety for the safety of her treasure. Madam Imbert informed her that she expected a friend of hers to come in a day or two to exchange some money for her. She had to have some to send to her husband's lawyer, who was making every effort to effect his release. "If your money is bulky, from being in bills of small denominations, he might exchange it for you and give you large bills, which you could easily carry with you. I have transacted a good deal of business with him, and have always found him careful and honest. If you wish, I will introduce you to him." Mrs. Maroney was always very suspicious, and her fears were somewhat aroused by the proposition. "What sort of a man is he?" she inquired. "I know nothing further of him than what I have told you; he has always acted honestly with me." "Could you not manage to have the money exchanged for me without my being known in the transaction?" asked Mrs. Maroney. "Yes, I could, but it would be better for you to see him." "Oh, no; there is no necessity of his knowing me. You can introduce me as a friend, if you like, but get the money changed as if it were your own, and pay him well for it." "Just as you please," answered the Madam. Mrs. Maroney wished in this way to compromise Madam Imbert, and get her into the same boat with Maroney and her. I was doing everything possible to bring out the money, and was able to protect my detectives. I had placed tempting bait for both Maroney and his wife, and they were nibbling strongly. My anglers were experts, and would soon hook their fish, and after playing them carefully would land them securely. Mrs. Maroney's confidence in Madam Imbert increased daily, until finally she said to her: "Madam Imbert, you would do me a great favor if you would take charge of some money packages I have. You could put them in a safe place, and let me have small amounts now and then, as I needed them. When my husband gets out we can use the money; but now we do not need it. The Adams Express might find out I have money, and they might try to get possession of it. It is not theirs, but they would make trouble for me if they could." "No," replied the Madam, "that I could not do. I don't want to be bothered with other people's money. I have enough trouble with my own. If I should take yours, I should never have any rest, fearing it might be stolen; and if it should be, I could never forgive myself. No, it is better for you to take care of it. I will advise you all I can, but cannot take the responsibility of protecting your property." Mrs. Maroney wrote to her husband and asked his advice. She informed him that she had followed Madam Imbert and had discovered her exchanging money, thus proving that she was telling the truth; and now she knew she could trust her. She spoke of the Madam's refusal to take charge of the money, but said she had agreed to get it exchanged, and asked him what she had better do. Maroney talked the affair over with White, and asked his opinion as to the best course to pursue. "She may do very well," said he, "but I don't know as I would trust her. You never saw her. She may be a first-rate woman, or she may be the opposite. If I were in your place I should wish to see her before I trusted her. It would be well to have your wife bring her to the jail to see you. Some women are smart, and she may be. As a general thing women are very good as playthings, but trusting them is an entirely different matter." Maroney carefully considered the matter, and finally wrote to his wife, directing her to induce Madam Imbert to accompany her to Eldridge street jail, as he wanted to see her and judge of her character before trusting her too far. On receipt of this letter, Mrs. Maroney called on Madam Imbert, said she was going to New York to see her husband, and asked the Madam to accompany her. She said they would have a pleasant trip, and return home the same evening. De Forest came up at this moment, and interrupted the conversation. "Good morning, ladies," said he gaily, "I have come to ask you to take a fish-dinner with me at Manayunk." Madam Imbert declined the invitation, but Mrs. Maroney concluded to go, and started off with the happy De Forest. Madam Imbert returned to Stemples's, hired his team, and drove into the city. She reported to me, and asked for instructions about going to New York with Mrs. Maroney. I told her to go; gave her full instructions, and then had an interview with the Vice-President. I told him that all was working well, and received his congratulations. Everything seemed auspicious, and pointed to speedy success. It was true that a good deal of money was being spent, but there was no other way to carry the matter to a successful termination. Madam Imbert returned to Jenkintown in time for supper, and, after a hearty meal, called at Cox's. She found no one at home but Mrs. Cox and the children. Mrs. Cox said her sister had not returned from her ride, and she feared that she must have met with some accident. Madam Imbert conversed with her until between eight and nine, when Josh. and Rivers came in. Mrs. Cox said, "Josh., Mrs. Maroney has not reached home yet. I fear she has met with some accident." "Hasn't she? Well, I'll go and hunt her up. Come along, Rivers." "Josh., you good for nothing fellow. You must wait here; don't you know you should not leave the house unguarded at this time?" "Oh!" thought Madam Imbert, "danger in leaving the house, eh! So there are two more in the secret,--Josh. and his wife!" Josh. said he would only step down the road, and would soon return. Nine o'clock came, but no Mrs. Maroney or De Forest. Madam Imbert did not know what to make of it, and began to think something unusual was under way. She arose to leave, but Mrs. Cox said: "Please don't leave me alone. Josh. will soon be back. Won't you stay down and watch the house, while I put the children to bed? Flora is asleep, and I am lonesome. I do wish that shiftless fellow would come home." "I am very tired," remarked Madam Imbert, preparing to leave, "and am afraid the tavern will be closed, as it is getting late; but I will see if I can find Josh., and send him home." "If you don't find him, please come back," pleaded Mrs. Cox. "Well, I'll do that," said she, going out. She walked to Stemples's, and without going into the bar-room, where she knew she would find Josh., went to her room and instructed Miss Johnson to find Rivers and tell him to keep Josh. for an hour. She then returned to Cox's. Miss Johnson found that Rivers was with Josh., Barclay and Horton, in the bar-room. She walked by the door, and, unobserved by the others, gave Rivers a signal to come out. He slipped out, and as he passed her she said: "Rivers, keep Cox for an hour," and in a second he was back calling for more drinks, and getting off jokes which brought down roars of laughter. _CHAPTER XXIV._ Mrs. Cox was very much pleased when Madam Imbert returned, and started up stairs to put the children to bed. There was not a moment to lose. As soon as they left the room Madam Imbert rushed to the outer door and listened. She was satisfied. No one was coming, and so, grasping a lamp, she went down into the cellar. Her quick eye took in every thing at a glance, but she could discover nothing out of the way. The floor was a common earthen one, but no signs of recent digging were to be seen. She pitched in, and for a few moments worked like a Trojan; she removed and replaced all the barrels, crocks, dishes, everything under which articles might possibly be concealed, but found nothing. She again searched carefully over the floor, and in the centre of the cellar saw slight signs of where the ground might have been lately dug up, and the soil carefully replaced. She knelt down to examine it more carefully, when she heard the rumbling of wheels. She sprang to her feet and rushed up stairs. She was none too soon, as she was hardly seated before Mrs. Maroney came in. She was greatly surprised to see Madam Imbert, and exclaimed: "What! you here? It is rather late for you to be out, is it not?" Madam Imbert saw at once that she was slightly intoxicated. She replied: "Yes indeed it is! I found your sister all alone, and she begged me to stay until she got the children in bed." Mrs. Cox came in at this moment, looking very angry. "Where have you been all this time? You ought to know better than to leave me all alone. Josh. has gone out with Rivers, and I believe they must be drinking. I am angry with Rivers. Josh. is getting to drink more than ever since he came here. It is too bad in you to stay away so long! I had to beg Madam Imbert to stay with me, and Flora has just gone to bed crying for her ma!" "Madam Imbert, I am very sorry I have been the cause of your late stay," said Mrs. Maroney. Then, pointing to some dirt on the Madam's dress--which had come from the cellar--she exclaimed: "What's that on your dress?" Madam Imbert looked carelessly at it, and said: "Why, I thought I had brushed that all off! When I was out looking for Josh. I stumbled and gave my knee a terrible wrench." Then glancing at the clock, she said: "Why, how late it is! Miss Johnson will think that I am lost. Good night!" "No, don't go yet; have a little brandy? It will do you good, as the air is quite chilling. Do you know that De Forest is a very fine fellow? I have a much higher opinion of him than ever before." She got the brandy and partially filled a tumbler with it. Madam Imbert just touched the liquor with her lips, and then passed it back to Mrs. Maroney, who drained the glass at a single draught. "You are doing wrong," remarked the Madam; "you should remember your promise to your husband." "Well, I shall not be going to-morrow. I shall suffer for this by having a severe head-ache. Was any one with you, down here, while sister was putting the children to bed?" asked Mrs. Maroney, looking full into Madam Imbert's face, but she saw nothing suspicious there. "No," answered Madam Imbert, as innocently as a lamb. The two ladies walked out of the house together, and Mrs. Maroney accompanied the Madam a short distance up the street, when they met Josh. and Rivers. Mrs. Maroney went home with Josh., and Madam Imbert told Rivers to keep watch on Cox's house, as something was in the wind. Rivers informed her she would have to hurry back to the town, as Stemples would soon close up for the night. Rivers passed slowly around the house. He knew that Josh. had taken enough to make him sleep well, and that Mrs. Maroney was in about the same condition, so that Mrs. Cox was the only one he had to fear. After a while he crawled close up to the cellar window. He heard an animated conversation going on inside, but could not distinguish the words. Some one closed a door with a bang, and all sound ceased. He looked up and noticed a light pouring through a narrow window, which he knew lighted a closet opening off from the sitting-room. He climbed up to it and saw, what was to him at least, an amusing scene. Josh., his wife, and Mrs. Maroney, were seated in the room. Mrs. Maroney looked as though in a violent passion, and plainly showed that she had been drinking. Josh. was making desperate efforts to look and act perfectly sober, but in spite of his efforts he would occasionally give a loud hiccough, while Mrs. Cox sat bolt upright in her chair, looking in sober disgust on both of them. Rivers, in his new position, could see and hear all that was going on. Mrs. Maroney was talking in an excited manner. "What brought that Madam Imbert here to-night? I am suspicious of that woman. She is very smart, and I saw dirt on her dress. It seems plain to me that she has been in the cellar, and down on her knees. What made you go up stairs and leave her here all alone?" "You have confidence in her, but you have been drinking, and that makes you suspicious," replied Mrs. Cox. "How dare you talk to me in this way?" yelled Mrs. Maroney. "I know my business! You know why I am living here, and supporting you and your worthless, good for nothing vagabond of a husband. He could never earn a living for himself, to say nothing of taking care of a family. All I want you to do is to obey me and keep your mouths shut, and I will pay you well for it; Josh. is always drunk and blabbing about." Josh. attempted to say something. "Hold your tongue, you fool! you are so drunk now you don't know what you are doing!" "Why," said Cox, "I did take a drop too much, but I don't believe I have taken half so much as you!" In a second Mrs. Maroney grasped a pitcher and smashed it over Josh.'s skull! Mrs. Cox sprang to assist her husband. For a moment there was a lively time, and the prospects were good for a regular scene, but quiet was soon restored, and Josh., muttering, went off to bed. [Illustration: _In a second, Mrs. Maroney grasped a pitcher and smashed it over Josh.'s skull._--Page 222.] "I must go into the cellar the first thing in the morning," said Mrs. Maroney. "Don't look at me in that way; my faculties are all clear. No one must go into it until I come down, as I want it to remain just as it is. I am suspicious of that Madam Imbert. There was no necessity of her being here so late, or of your leaving her alone, you fool! Be sure, now, not to let any one go down!" Mrs. Maroney then took a lamp and started for her room. Rivers listened for some time, and finding all quiet, went up to Stemples's. He saw a light in Madam Imbert's room, and after listening around, and finding no one stirring, he went quietly under her window and threw some dirt against the panes. The light in the room was instantly turned down. Soon afterward, the window was noiselessly raised, and Madam Imbert poked her head out. "Who's there?" she asked, in a low tone. "Rivers," he replied; "like to see you; important." "Wait," said she; "I will be with you at the front door directly." She was acquainted with all the modes of egress, and threading her way through the darkness, soon stood with Rivers in front of the house. He reported all that had taken place. Madam Imbert said: "I think it is all right, but still I may be mistaken, and we must be sure. Can't you find some way to get into the cellar? There is a small window, about two feet by thirteen inches, which you might remove, and gain access in that way. It will be light at four o'clock; it is now twelve, and every one at Cox's will be sound asleep at that time. You can then slip in, and if I have disarranged anything, put it to rights. Be sure not to get caught!" "I will certainly do it," said Rivers, as he started to return to Cox's. During his absence some one had set loose a dog that Cox owned. It was a miserable cur, but was long-winded, like its master, and possessed of good barking qualities. Rivers got well concealed, but the dog was after him--bark, bark, bark; he tried all he could to quiet him, but could not. Soon a neighboring dog commenced to howl; then another, and another, until all the dogs in the village had joined in a grand chorus. He did not know what to do. He was concealed by the side of a fence, but did not dare strike the dog, which kept a few paces from him, barking incessantly. Mrs. Maroney heard the noise, and opening her window, said; "Sic, sic; good fellow, sic." Rivers jumped up and got the dog to follow him until he reached a field some distance from the house, when, with a well-directed throw he stunned him with a large stone, and soon stamped all life out of him. He then took the "melancholy remains," placed them at Barclay's door, and returned to Cox's, where he found all quiet. He returned to his old position and remained until day began to dawn. At dawn he crawled to the window, easily removed it, and slipped into the cellar. He examined everything carefully, found some marks on the floor where barrels had been removed, and in less than half an hour had obliterated all traces of Madam Imbert's operations. He then crawled out, replaced the window, and quietly returned to his boarding-house. He had made arrangements by which he could always let himself in or out at any hour of the night. The family he boarded with thought he was somewhat of a "rake," but as he always paid his bills promptly, liked him for a boarder. In the morning Madam Imbert was on the lookout, and between nine and ten Rivers came along. He reported that he had replaced everything in the cellar, and described how he had killed Josh.'s dog and left his remains at Barclay's. Madam Imbert strolled down to Cox's, and met Mrs. Maroney at the door. She was more polite than usual, having made an examination of the cellar and found her suspicions baseless. Soon Josh. and Rivers made their appearance. Rivers remarked that he had heard a strange dog barking the night before, and got up to find out what was going on, but could discover nothing. "Yes," said Mrs. Maroney, "that was Josh.'s dog. A man was lurking around here before I went to bed, so I let the dog out. In a short time I heard it after some one, and opened my window and set it on. You see, Josh., how necessary it is for you to keep sober. If you had been up you might have shot that scoundrel. This morning I saw his footprints distinctly impressed in the walks." "Well," said Josh., "if my dog got hold of him, he made a hole in his leg, I'll bet. I know he is a good dog." "Yes, I think he is," said Rivers, as he and Josh. strolled over toward Barclay's. Barclay met them on the way. "Josh.," says he, "that dog of mine is a splendid animal, by George! You ought to have heard him bark last night. A strange dog came around my place; my dog tackled him, and 'oh, Moses,' how they _fit_! It ended by my dog's killing his antagonist. Come and see how he _chawed_ him up!" He led the way to where the dead carcass lay. As soon as they came in sight of it Josh. dashed forward, and raising the dead animal by its caudal appendage, angrily exclaimed: "That's my dog! You must be the man who was lurking around my house last night! You had better go down and explain to Mrs. Maroney what you were doing around there." [Illustration: _Raising the dead animal by its caudal appendage, he angrily exclaimed, "That's my dog!"_--Page 226.] "What do you suppose I could be doing at your house?" asked Barclay, much perplexed. "Why, I was not out of my house once last night." "I tell you," said Josh., "Mrs. Maroney will walk into you when she finds this out. You ought to have seen her last night. She smashed a pitcher over my head, and I believe she would have killed me, if my wife had not pitched into her. Of course I could not strike back, as she is a woman." Rivers invited them up to Stemples's, and in less than an hour Cox and he had impressed upon Barclay the necessity of his seeing Mrs. Maroney and explaining to her that he had not been lurking around the night before. They started off together, and arrived at Josh.'s residence just as Madam Imbert and Mrs. Maroney were coming out. Barclay immediately went up to her and assured her that he had not been loafing around the night before. "Who said you had?" said Mrs. Maroney, now fully convinced that it _was_ he. "Who said you had?" and she opened upon him with a perfect tirade of abuse. Madam Imbert took her by the arm and drew her to one side. "Mrs. Maroney, don't take any notice of that man. He is a fool, and your best plan is to let him severely alone. Some people may be wiser than others, and will begin to suspect that something is wrong if you go on so. You know the old saying: 'Walls have ears?'" "You are right, you seem to be always right," said Mrs. Maroney, and she let the matter drop. _CHAPTER XXV._ The two women left Barclay perfectly dumbfounded and walked over to the garden. Mrs. Maroney said she was going to New York in the morning to see her husband, and begged the Madam to accompany her. Madam Imbert agreed to go, saying that she had some purchases to make. They concluded to hire Stemples's team in the morning and drive into Philadelphia, put it up at some livery stable, go to New York, visit Maroney, return to Philadelphia, and drive home in the evening. Nothing of importance took place the day they visited New York. Green knew of their intended trip and "shadowed" them to New York and back. All he had to report was that nothing had transpired worthy of mention. It is quite as important to find that nothing takes place as to note what actually occurs, for thus the case is cleared of all uncertainty. The "shadow" reports truthfully of all things just as he finds them. The women, on their arrival in New York, went directly to Eldridge street jail and Mrs. Maroney introduced Madam Imbert to her husband. She then had a long private conversation with him and afterwards re-joined Madam Imbert. The three had a pleasant chat, Maroney acting in all respects the part of a perfect gentleman. His face showed deep anxiety, but he talked very cheerfully and told Madam Imbert that he hoped soon to have the pleasure of meeting her at Jenkintown. He assured her that he would soon be free and would then take vengeance on his enemies. He said he intended to go to Texas and buy a ranche. The Rio Grande country just suited him, and he expatiated at length on the beauty of the country and the salubrity of its climate. After a few hours passed in social converse they parted. Mrs. Maroney went to visit a friend on Thirty-first street and Madam Imbert to do her shopping. They agreed to meet at the Jersey City ferry at four o'clock. Green followed Mrs. Maroney. She visited her friend, stopped some time and then met Madam Imbert at the appointed place and time. On the road to Philadelphia Mrs. Maroney spoke of her husband and said he was very much pleased with the Madam, and thought her a very fine-looking, intelligent woman, in fact just the person to help them; but he was about to carry out a plan which he knew would be successful. White was soon going to be released on bail and would then arrange everything for him. In the meantime, she was to wait quietly and do nothing, as he would shortly be with her. On getting into Philadelphia they ordered their team and drove out to Jenkintown. The same day White came to Maroney and said: "Congratulate me, old fellow. Shanks has just brought me some letters from my attorneys and I find that all has gone well. My affairs are in a much better condition, and now, after a long and irksome confinement, I am about to be liberated on bail. In two or three days, or by the end of this week, at farthest, I shall be at liberty." "I am delighted to hear of your good fortune," answered Maroney in a hearty tone. "You must not forget me when you are out, but as soon as you can arrange your own affairs, turn your attention to mine. I am anxious to see the plan to entrap Chase at once set in operation. Won't it be a good joke when McGibony nabs him and finds the money on his person? Ha! ha! ha! what will the Adams Express say then? They will feel rather sore over their pet, I reckon." He laughed over the idea for some time, while a fiendish expression of joy settled on his face. "I'll attend to it as soon as possible," said White; "but you see I have no money of my own that I can use at the present time. I would gladly advance you the necessary amount if I could, but all my available cash will have to go as security to my bondsmen. I believe you a thorough good fellow, and will cheerfully do all in my power for you." "I don't wish you to advance the money for me. I know you would if you could; but you and I are about in the same fix. We have plenty of funds, but can't use them at present. I believe I shall be able to raise the money in some way before long. If the job works well with Chase I shall be completely vindicated. Another thing, the suit against me will soon come up, and my counsel says that I am sure to win it. I shall be the only witness on the part of the defendant and shall have to swear that I never took any of the money. This will be the truth, as a cent of money never came wrongfully into my possession. It is a good thing they did not know I had an interest in the livery stable, or they would surely have seized that." "I have a good lawyer," said White, "he has carried me through successfully, and as soon as possible after I get out I will help you." The next day Bangs disguised himself and called at the jail as White's counsel. He had a long talk with him in his cell and then walked briskly out in the manner of a lawyer with a large practice, whose moments are precious; but lawyers have one object, while he had another. Bangs wished to avoid the scrutiny of the prisoners, as there might be some of them who knew him. White came smilingly up to Maroney after Bangs left and said: "My case is surely arranged, and I am off to-morrow." "Are you, indeed?" exclaimed Maroney. "I am delighted to hear it;" but his voice sank. It seemed as if he wanted White out, so that he could help him, but was afraid to trust him. He turned and walked away, came back, and again congratulated White. White assured him that he was going in the morning. "So soon?" remarked Maroney; "well, I am happy to find you are. I don't want to see any man kept in jail. My own case will soon come up, and after I am cleared here, the trial in Montgomery will be a perfect farce. I shall write to my wife and tell her how well you have succeeded. Isn't it strange, White, that I have taken such a liking to you? You are the right man for me. There is not a soul in this jail but you whom I would trust." He walked into his cell and wrote a letter to his wife. Several times he came out and conversed with White. He seemed to have something on his mind which he wished to disclose, but lacked the courage to do so. He finally backed down entirely, and concluded to wait. He played several games of cards with White and the other prisoners, and then conversed with Shanks, who came to remove some of White's baggage. He found that White had taken a room on Bleeker street, and the moving of his effects showed how near at hand was the moment of his departure. The next day was an eventful one, and clearly proved the soundness of my theory. After breakfast Maroney took White's arm, and walked around the hall several times with him, his manner plainly showing that he was very much embarrassed. He finally drew him into a quiet corner opposite to where the prisoners were congregated playing cards and amusing themselves in various ways. "White," said Maroney, "I am going to entrust to you my secret. I feel that I can trust you; I know I can. I have watched you closely, and find that you are true as steel. Now listen: I have invited you to take hold of my matters, and in order to give you a clear understanding of my case, it becomes necessary for me to divulge to you what at present is known only to my wife and myself. It is useless for me to ask, but still I wish you to give me your solemn promise to keep my secret inviolate." "Oh, yes, I'll do that," said White, "but I have got a good deal of business of my own to attend to, and if you think you can't trust me, you had better keep it to yourself." "No, no, nothing of the kind! I know I can trust you!" said Maroney, "and you have given the promise. Now, White, who do you think stole the fifty thousand dollars?" "I am sure I don't know," replied White. "Well, I did! I stole it from the company, and have been able to keep it so far. If you will assist me, I shall continue to do so. Would you have stolen it if you had been in my place?" "Certainly," exclaimed White; "do you think I am a fool? I shall make a big pile in my operation." "Then," said Maroney, "if we only join our forces, we shall make some one howl." Neither spoke for some minutes. White acted as if the matter was a common, every-day occurrence; but he thought: "He has broken the ice; I shall soon hear it all." Maroney was the first to break the silence. He said: "I first stole ten thousand dollars, which was brought to my office on Sunday, by the messenger from Atlanta. This package was intended for a party in Columbus, Ga. It had been missent, and forwarded by mistake to Atlanta, instead of to Macon, and from Atlanta to me in Montgomery. My duty was, on receipt of the package, to immediately telegraph to Atlanta of its arrival, and to send it off by the train that left that evening for Columbus. I had no right to the package, and should have immediately re-billed it and sent it off. I was certain that no one knew that it had been missent. It had evidently found its way into the pouch through a mistake, as it was not marked on the way-bill, or its presence known to the messenger. I never thought I should be guilty of theft till the time; but the moment I saw the package it flashed into my mind that if I took it I would never be detected. The temptation was too strong to be withstood. I yielded to it, and without any one's seeing me, dropped the package under the counter. The messenger did not see it, and as his way-bill checked up all right, soon left the office. I watched my chance and put the packet of money into my coat-pocket and went home. "You see, White, that was my first offense, and I felt rather frightened. I felt sorry that I had yielded to the temptation, but could not part with the money, it seemed so completely to have infatuated me. I took it home and hid it, but did not tell my wife a word about it. In a short time despatches were sent all around to the different agents to find, if possible, where the package was. I received several of them, but reported that I had not seen or heard anything of it. I was so assured of the impossibility of my detection that I had lost all the fears that at first assailed me, and was as cool as a cucumber. "The General Superintendent came around with several detectives, but they could not find the money. I was tried in many ways, but I never flinched, and they finally had to give the matter up. "In a short time I asked for leave of absence to make a visit to the North. It was granted me, and I started off, with the ten thousand dollars in my possession. I soon found that I was followed by a detective, and I led him a wild-goose chase until I reached Richmond, Va., where I gave him the slip, and he never knew where I went. I did the same in the forty-thousand-dollar case. I gave them all the slip at Chattanooga." "No matter about that," said White; "if you are going to give me a statement, give me a clear one, and not jumble everything together." "Well, I gave the detective the slip at Richmond, and went to Winnsboro, S. C. There I passed myself off as a cotton buyer, but had great difficulty in making a purchase, as Robert Agnew, a prominent cotton-broker, held all the cotton in the neighborhood, and did not care to sell as he expected a rise in price every day. After some dickering I induced him to sell me seven thousand five hundred dollars' worth, which I paid for with the stolen funds of the company. "I had the cotton shipped to R. G. Barnard, Charleston, S. C., to be sold, proceeds to be remitted to me, in Montgomery. The cotton was sold and the amount forwarded to me in two drafts on New York, one of which I had cashed in that city, and the other in Montgomery. I lost quite a sum by my speculation, as cotton did not rise, but fell. I was perfectly contented to stand the loss, as the stolen money was exchanged. I bought "Yankee Mary" with the two thousand five hundred dollars remaining, and returned to Montgomery, after having successfully disposed of all the stolen money. "On my return I found everything quiet, and went on with my duties as usual; but one day the Superintendent came to me and said the company had concluded to change agents, and that I had better resign. I did so at once, saying that I was just about going into business on my own account. I must say that when I met the General Superintendent I did not like his looks, as he seemed to suspect me. He made many enquiries as to how I got my money, but was unable to ascertain anything. "The Superintendent of the Southern Division asked me to take charge of the office until my successor arrived, and I willingly consented. The Superintendent had much suavity of manner, and it was hard for me to tell whether he considered me guilty or not. I rather thought he suspected me. When I found that my time with the company was to be so short I determined to make a good haul, as I knew I could never get a situation in the business again, for the Adams Express was the only express company in the South. I began to look around to see how I could best accomplish my purpose. I studied the character of the different messengers, and thought Chase the best man to operate upon. I determined to wait until I had a good heavy run out, and then put my plan in operation. Chase was a good, clever fellow, but careless. I tried him in several ways, and found that he could be "gulled" more easily than any of the other messengers. I could not do anything on the runs in, as the messengers checked the packages over to me, but on the runs out I checked over to them, and, with a careless man like Chase, it would be the simplest thing in the world to call off packages, and, as he checked them off, for me to drop them behind the counter instead of into the pouch." _CHAPTER XXVI._ On the twenty-seventh of January I had a very heavy run in, and among numerous other packages were four that attracted my attention; one for Charleston, S. C., for two thousand five hundred dollars, and three for Augusta, Geo., for thirty thousand, five thousand and two thousand five hundred dollars respectively. Chase was going out in the morning, and then was the time to act. I got an old trunk that was lying in the office, and packed it full of different articles, among other things four boxes of cigars. Early in the morning I was up and down at the office. Chase soon came in, drew his safe over to the counter, and began to check off the packages marked on the way-bill, as I called them off and placed them in the pouch. If he had obeyed the rule of the company he would have taken each package in his hand and placed it in the pouch, but he carelessly allowed me to call off the amounts and place the packages in the pouch. In this way, as he stood outside of the counter, I was enabled to call off all the packages on the way-bill, but dropped the four containing the forty thousand dollars under the counter amongst a lot of waste paper I had placed there for the purpose. The way-bill checked off all right; Chase said "O. K.," so I locked the pouch, handed it to him, and he locked it up in his safe. He then went to breakfast, leaving me alone in the office. I immediately picked up the packages, distributed their contents into four piles of equal size, removed the cigars from the boxes, and placed a pile of money in each. I then filled the space above the money with cigars, nailed down the lid of the boxes, placed them in the trunk, tied it up and directed it to W. A. Jackson, Galveston, Texas. There was a wagon loading at the door. I had the box immediately placed on it, and within an hour of the time I had taken the money it was on its way down the Alabama river, for Mobile. The boat started down the river at the same time that Chase left for Atlanta. That is what I call sharp work. No one but me knew of the loss of the packages. [Illustration: "_As he stood outside of the counter, I was enabled to call off all the packages on the way-bill, but dropped the four containing the forty thousand dollars under the counter._"--Page 237.] "Chase was in his car, perfectly at ease, but when he reached Atlanta he was destined to receive a shock he would not soon forget. As soon as he arrived there the loss was discovered, and the Assistant Superintendent of the Southern Division, who happened to be in the Atlanta office, immediately telegraphed to me for an explanation. I did not take the trouble of answering the despatch, and he came on to Montgomery that night to investigate. All I had to say was that I had checked the money over to Chase, and they would have to look to him for an explanation. Telegrams came thick and fast, but I was nerved up to pass through anything, and left them unnoticed. "When Chase returned to Montgomery he was greatly excited and appeared much more guilty than I. The Assistant Superintendent was in the office when he arrived. I received the pouch from Chase, checked off the way-bill, found the packages all right, and throwing down the pouch, placed the packages in the vault. I then returned and picked up the pouch as if to look into it. I had my knife open, but concealed in my coat sleeve. As I raised the pouch to look into it, I slipped the knife into my hand and in a second cut two slits in the pouch and threw the knife back up my sleeve. I immediately said to Mr. Hall, who stood directly in front of me, 'Why, it's cut! How the messenger could carry the pouch around, cut in this manner, and not discover it, is astonishing!' "The Assistant Superintendent examined the pouch and found it cut, as I had stated. This was a great point in my favor, and the Assistant Superintendent was at once convinced that I was innocent of any participation in the robbery. No one suspected me after this until the Vice-President and General Superintendent came. They looked at the pouch, and one of them said, 'I understand this,' and they had the pouch taken care of. This was the first thing that seemed to create suspicion in the General Superintendent's mind. He had me arrested, but could not prove any thing against me. My friends all stood by me, and I had to do an immense amount of drinking. My wife one day asked me about the robbery; I at first denied any knowledge of it, but she is smart and does not easily give up. She kept at me and I finally concluded that the best way to keep her still was to tell her all. So I owned up to her, and then gave her some money and started her for the North. It is hard for me to keep any thing entirely to myself, and especially hard to keep any thing from my wife. "I remained in Montgomery, but was not at all lonely, as I always had a squad of friends around me. In fact I never knew before that I had so many. I knew that the trunk was safe, but felt at times a little apprehensive that some one might open it. Its contents were amply sufficient to pay all charges on it in case it should never be claimed. "After my arrest, I was taken before Justice Holtzclaw. At the preliminary examination I was held in forty thousand dollars bail, but at the final examination the company presented so weak a case that I think I ought to have been discharged at once. The justice thought differently, but reduced my bail to four thousand dollars, in which amount I was bound over to appear for trial before the circuit court. I easily procured bail, and was soon at liberty. I remained in Montgomery after my release, keeping a sharp look out for detectives, as I felt sure the company would have plenty of them on my track, but I could not discover any. It was hard to believe they had none employed, as on the ten thousand dollar case they had a small regiment of them; but none were to be seen in Montgomery, and I concluded they must be looking for the money in another direction. I had a slight mistrust of McGibony, but soon proved to my entire satisfaction that he was not employed in the case. Every thing went on smoothly, and I could discover nothing suspicious going on around me. I at length determined to make an excursion to several of the large Southern cities, to ascertain, if possible, whether I would be followed. Before leaving, I wrote to the agent of Jones's Express, at Galveston, assuming the name of W. A. Jackson, and directed him to send my trunk to Natchez. I started out on my trip and visited Atlanta, Chattanooga, Nashville and Memphis. I scanned the passengers who came on board or left the trains, all the guests who 'put up' at the various hotels where I stopped on my journey, but could not discover a sign of a detective. By the time that I got to Memphis I knew I was not followed, and so took the steamer 'John Walsh,' intending to get off at Natchez, gain possession of my trunk, which must have reached there, and go on down the river to New Orleans. When I reached Natchez, I enquired of the agent of Jones's Express whether he had a trunk for W. A. Jackson, shipped from Galveston, Texas. He examined his book and said that he had not received such a trunk, but that possibly it had been sent and detained in the New Orleans office. I was now in a quandary; I was afraid to go to New Orleans and ask for the trunk, as I knew the Adams and Jones's Express occupied the same office in that city. Could it be possible that the company had suspicions of the trunk and were holding it as a bait to draw me out? No! it was not possible! Still, I did not care to go to the office and ask for the trunk, as some one would be sure to know me, and my claiming a trunk as W. A. Jackson would be proof positive to them that something was wrong about it. They would seize and search it, and then my guilt would be apparent. I finally determined to go to New Orleans, put up at the City Hotel, and then carelessly drop into the office of the company and see if I could discover the trunk lying around. I did so, and on coming into the office was immediately recognized by the employés, some of whom were glad to see me. I did not stay long; glanced around, saw the trunk was not there, and returned to the hotel. "I wanted to find whether the trunk had gone on to Natchez, so I wrote a note, asking whether a trunk directed to W. A. Jackson, Natchez, was in their possession or had been forwarded to its destination, and signed it W. A. Jackson. I then walked out of the hotel, limping as if so lame as to be scarcely able to walk, and met a colored boy standing on the corner. I hired him to take the note to the office for me and bring back the answer. He soon returned with a note which politely informed me that the trunk had been sent to Natchez. I immediately returned to Natchez, found the trunk, signed the receipt, paid the charges and left for Mobile _via_ New Orleans, and I tell you I was more than pleased when I arrived there with my trunk. "When I reached Montgomery a bevy of my friends came down to see me. Porter, one of my best friends--a splendid fellow--was amongst them, and as he was clerk of the hotel I had him order my baggage up. He had a carriage for me and we drove to Patterson's, and then went over to the hotel. In the morning I had him bring the old trunk into my room. I opened it before them all, carelessly took a few cigars from each of the boxes and gave to them to try. In this way their suspicions in regard to the old trunk, if they had any, were entirely dispelled. "Mrs. Maroney was still in New York. I remained for some time in Montgomery, still suspecting that some one was on my track, but could find nothing to confirm my suspicions. It was getting time for me to make some preparation for my defense. I had formed a plan to overthrow the testimony of the company by having a key made to fit their pouch, introducing it at the trial and proving that outsiders might have keys as well as the agents. I was desirous of having the key made at once. It could not be made in Montgomery or at New Orleans, for, though there were plenty of locksmiths, their work was not fine enough to suit me; so I concluded to go to New York and have one made. "I had some business to transact with my wife also, and wrote to her to meet me at a certain date in Philadelphia. I came North, met my wife in Philadelphia, where we stopped a day or two, and then started for New York. As I stepped ashore from the ferry-boat I was arrested. Never before in my life was I so dumbfounded. I can't tell you how they knew the time I would arrive. The detectives in Philadelphia must have been after me while I was there, and when I left for here they must have telegraphed, and thus secured my arrest. They brought me here and I told my wife to come and see me in the morning. I was too confused to say anything and my brain was in a maze. I never dreamed of the possibility of arrest in New York. I might have been prepared for it in Montgomery, but did not think it possible that anything of the kind could happen here. My wife spoke to me on the subject, but I was unable to do or say anything. I make it a rule, when I am confused and can't collect my thoughts, to say nothing until I am calm, when I plan what I had better do. "In the morning I decided that it was necessary for my wife to go to Montgomery and bring the money North with her. I was in jail and might need the money to procure bail, which I would like to do now. Then, there was danger in leaving the money where it was secreted--in the old trunk in the garret--as Floyd might want to clear the garret out, and I had several times seen him sell unclaimed baggage. My old trunk might be sold for a trifle and some one take it home and find it contained a treasure. "As soon as she could, Mrs. Maroney went to Montgomery for the money. I had informed her where it was concealed, and told her to get it and bring it North. "The money was rather bulky, as although there were some large bills, there were a great many fives, tens, twenties and a few one hundred dollar notes. The whole of it made a large pile, but my wife proved a good hand. She fooled them all, and concealed the money in her bustle. It was a troublesome weight to travel with, and she was obliged to stop at Augusta, Ga., to rest herself. She also spent a day with my brother at Danielsville, who promised to come and see me. He came, and, as you know, accomplished nothing. "My wife has now got the money concealed in the cellar of Josh. Cox's house. Cox is her brother-in-law, and from what she tells me of him is a good-natured fellow, but pretty shrewd. Mrs. Cox is very smart. They never leave the house entirely alone, one or the other of them always keeping watch. "That Madam Imbert is said by my wife to be a fine woman. I was much pleased with her when she came here the other day. Mrs. Maroney managed well with her and discovered that her husband is imprisoned in Missouri. She also followed her in Philadelphia and found her changing money. My wife is smart, she suddenly confronted her and the Madam admitted all. A man comes to see her who exchanges money for her. My wife was about arranging with her to have the express money exchanged, but you are going out and I prefer to entrust my affairs to you. You see, White, I know I can trust you. There is only one thing that troubles me about Jenkintown: A fellow named De Forest is stopping there and is quite attentive to my wife. I think he is an agent of the Adams Express; but from what my wife says, she is smart enough for him and can rope him in long before he can her. "Now I have told you all, and hope you will act in the matter just as your judgment dictates. The fact of the matter is, your knowledge of the North is so great that you can act much better than I." "Yes," said White, "I understand the ropes well, and you may depend upon it I will handle them as well as I know how. I think that as soon as I get clear myself--which may take four, five, or six days--and have settled up with my lawyers--I don't like those fellows, but sometimes you can't get along without them--I think I will try and get a key to the pouch made; I can do so easily. Then I will go to Montgomery and see Chase, study his movements on the cars and at the hotels. I can at the same time arrange to get the girl, whom I intend to bring from here, into the Exchange, and as soon as possible get her acquainted with Chase. But see here, don't you think it best to get some of the stolen money to use in this case?" "Certainly," said Maroney, "My wife will give you all the money you need. I will give you a letter to her." "No," said White, "I don't want to have anything to do with women. Your wife may be perfectly true to you, but if I come in I doubt very much whether she takes any interest in me, unless it be to thwart my plans." "Why not?" asked Maroney. "My wife should know and take an interest in all my affairs. She will do all in her power for us, and she is so shrewd that she will be able to help us very much." "Well," said White, "that may be all true enough, but women are sure to get strange notions. I don't like to deal with them; women seem naturally suspicious. I don't want to treat your wife with injustice, but at the same time if she has a finger in the pie, ten to one she will suspect me of trying to get the whole pile and intending to clear out with it." "Don't you believe that for a moment," replied Maroney. "She knows I have entire confidence in you, and that will be enough for her. You need have no fears that she will interfere in the matter in any way. I trust you, and my word is law to her. I would prefer to have you take all the money; you can then select what you want for Chase, and try and work off the balance in small amounts. This will be a delicate operation, as the banks very likely marked some of the bills before they shipped them." "Yes, there are a great many obstacles to be overcome in changing the money, but I think I can manage to work it off in some way." _CHAPTER XXVII._ "White, I will write a letter to my wife which will pave your way to gaining her implicit confidence." "How will you do that?" asked White. "I will write to her informing her that you are coming, and that you will identify yourself by presenting a letter from me." "Yes, but suppose she won't give up the money? I could not go back again, as some of the detectives might suspect me and take me into custody." "Oh, nothing of the sort will happen. I will write you a letter that will surely get the money; come, we will see what we can do." And they sat down at a table, where Maroney began to write. In a short time he finished a letter, and read it to White. He wrote: "MY DEAREST WIFE: I have confided all to Mr. White. He will be liberated to-day or to-morrow. He has some business to attend to, which will detain him four or five days, when he will call on you in the guise of a book-peddler. Now, I say to you, trust implicitly in him! I have trusted him with my secret. He will take care of all. Give him everything you have in the packages. Take no writing from him, whatever. He requires something to work off on Chase, and wants to use some of the stuff I got in Montgomery. When he succeeds in this, Chase will be in my place. Then he will begin to exchange all I have; afterwards all will be easy. When I am at liberty, we can enjoy it in safety. I feel perfectly safe, and confident. Now, dearest, as I have before said, trust him implicitly, and all will be right. Yours forever, NAT." White approved of the letter. Maroney, therefore, sealed it up, directed it, and gave it to Shanks, who was in the jail, to post. Of course the dutiful young man would not fail to do so. He then wrote the following letter of introduction and handed it to White: "MY DEAREST WIFE: This is the book-peddler. You will want to buy books from him. Buy what you want. Give him the packages for me. He is honest. All is well. NAT." White scanned its contents, and said: "I suppose this is sufficient, but the question still remains: will she obey it? I will do the best I can, but I have little faith in women." "Oh, now!" said Maroney, "don't make me feel down-hearted. I have done the best I can, and I know she will obey me." "Very well," replied White, "I will go as soon as possible--in a week, more or less; as soon as I can possibly arrange my own affairs. On my arrival in Jenkintown I will write to you at once and let you know how I am received." "Agreed; I have trusted you, and my wife must trust you." Shanks had several commissions to attend to. He first came to my room in the hotel and handed me Maroney's letter to his wife. I opened and read the letter, and exclaimed. "Now the battle is ours! Victory is almost within our grasp." I saw the Vice-President and read the letter to him. He was highly delighted and said he could now see the wisdom of all my manoeuvres. The following day White was released from his long confinement. It must be admitted that his duties were extremely arduous, but such is often the fate of a detective. I have sometimes had my men in prison for a longer time than this, and they have often failed to accomplish any thing, being obliged to give up without discovering what they were looking for. White remained in New York attending to his _own_ business after his release. He called once or twice on Maroney to show that he had not forgotten him, and to assure him that he would soon get a pouch-key made. This was easily accomplished, as all he had to do was to go the Express Office, get a key, file it up a little to make it look bright and new, and show it to Maroney as an earnest of his intentions in regard to Chase. We will now leave the parties in New York and return to Jenkintown. Very little had taken place here and the various parties in whom we have an interest were conducting themselves much as usual. Mrs. Maroney and Madam Imbert went to Philadelphia on the same day that White was liberated. They spent most of the day in the city and came out on the cars in the evening. De Forest met them and drove them to Stemples's in his buggy. After tea Madam Imbert went down to Cox's and strolled up to the post office with Mrs. Maroney. Mrs. Maroney received a letter which she opened. She said it was from Nat. She began to read it as they walked along. As she read, Madam Imbert noticed that all color left her face, and she became white as wax. She folded up the letter and leaned heavily on the Madam's arm for support. "What's the matter? are you sick?" she anxiously enquired. "No; but I have received so strange a letter; walk along with me; I am very weak; I will tell you its contents in a few minutes." She did not go in the direction of Cox's, but led the way to the garden. Here the two women took seats. She read the letter over again and then handed it to Madam Imbert. "Read it," she said. The Madam did so. Neither spoke for some time. "What do you think of it?" she at length asked. "I think it a little strange, but at the same time have no doubt but that it is all right. Your husband is of course the best judge in this matter, and must have good reasons for taking the step. He has full confidence in White; has been locked up with him for several months; has seen him day and night, and doubtless has thoroughly studied his character. White is almost like his wife, and he knows what he is doing when he consents to trust him so far." Mrs. Maroney was rapidly getting better and said, angrily, "No, I will never give him the money in this way! it is all nonsense! 'What do I know about White?' This is asking too much of me! Why did he not write and consult me on the subject? He simply says, 'White is out of jail now; give him the money!' and gives me no chance to speak on the subject. Suppose White gets the money; how do I know but that he will run away with it and leave us to suffer without getting any of the benefit? Madam Imbert I must tell you all: you see that in this letter Nat. does not mention money, but he means money. As you are now the only one I can trust, I will talk plainly to you. My husband took the forty thousand dollars from the Express Company, and also ten thousand dollars previously. Now all is out! When he was thrown into prison in New York he sent me for the money which he had concealed in Montgomery, and I brought it here, and have it hidden in Josh.'s cellar. Now what am I to do? If I give it to this man White, I shall probably never see it again; in fact I am sure I never shall." "You are mistaken, I think," said Madam Imbert; "have confidence!" "_Confidence!_ It would be my best plan to run away myself!"--she was going on still further, but Madam Imbert stopped her. "Don't say any thing more at present, my dear Mrs. Maroney. You are too excited to talk calmly; let the matter rest until morning." They dropped the subject for the time, and as Mrs. Maroney expressed a desire for a little brandy to calm her nerves, went down to Cox's. Mrs. Maroney offered some brandy to the Madam, which she politely declined to take, but this did not in the least abash her, for she gulped down enough to stagger an old toper. Josh. was not at home, and so very little was said. Mrs. Cox asked her if she had received a letter from Nat. "Yes," she answered in a snappish tone, and said no more. Madam Imbert had accomplished all she desired for that day, and so left Mrs. Maroney to herself. In the morning Mrs. Maroney sent Flora to her, with a request that she would accompany her to Philadelphia. Madam Imbert sent word that she would be happy to go and would come to Cox's immediately. De Forest met Flora and commenced playing with her. "I must go right home," said she, "as ma is going to Philadelphia and sent me with a message to Madam Imbert, asking her to go too. She said she would, and is coming down to the house, so I must hurry home." "What a fool I am," thought De Forest, "I would rather have her go with me." So he went to Cox's with Flora to offer his services. Mrs. Maroney appeared troubled and excited. He knew that he never made progress with her when she was in a moody state, so he timidly said that he was going to Philadelphia and asked her to go along. She said, "No!" very harshly, and he immediately vanished. She started out and met Madam Imbert on the way down. "Come back with me, I want to hire Stemples's team," she said. Stemples soon had his team ready for them, and they started. "I didn't want any one with me but you, Madam Imbert, as I am much troubled and need your advice. I want to consult a lawyer, but don't know how to go about it. There is a lawyer in Philadelphia, a good man, in fact the same one my husband had at New York for consultation, and I think I shall ask his advice." "I would not do it, if I were in your place," advised Madam Imbert. "If a lawyer once gets hold of the facts, he is much more likely to get all the money than White." "That is the trouble. Last night after you left, Josh. came in and we talked the matter over. You know Josh. and the opinion I have of him, but with all his faults he is shrewd. His wife and he held the same opinion: that it would never do to trust White with the money, and Josh. was in favor of changing its hiding place. I did not tell them that I had told you all, but I intend to do so. I informed them that I was going to the city to consult a lawyer, but they were both against me, and now you are opposed to me and I don't know what to do, or what I am doing. I am almost crazy!" They drove up to a tavern on the way and she took some brandy, which seemed to give her more courage. When they reached the city Madam Imbert wished to report to Bangs, but found it almost impossible to get away from Mrs. Maroney, who had concluded not to ask the advice of a lawyer. They went into Mitchell's and Madam Imbert managed to get away a few moments and reported to Bangs. She had not been with him ten minutes before Rivers, who was shadowing Mrs. Maroney, came in and reported that she seemed very uneasy and had been out on the street several times, glancing anxiously around. Madam Imbert at once hurried back to Mitchell's. "Where were you?" demanded Mrs. Maroney. "I am suspicious of you all!" Madam Imbert drew herself up with an air of offended dignity which spoke more than words. "I am sorry I have offended you!" said Mrs. Maroney quickly. "Please forgive me! I am so nervous that for a time I mistrusted even you and thought you had gone for a policeman or a detective; let's have dinner and go." When they were on the return journey, Mrs. Maroney said: "I feel much better on the road with you alone than when in the city. I want to talk continually, and you are the only one to whom I dare talk. However excited or miserable I may feel, companionship with you always makes me feel happy and contented." At the various taverns they passed on the road Mrs. Maroney always stopped and invoked the aid of stimulants to cheer her up. She suddenly turned to Madam Imbert and asked: "Would you be willing to run away with me? We could go down into Louisiana, where we are not known, buy a small place in some out of the way town and live secluded for four or five years, until our existence was forgotten, and then make our appearance once more in the fashionable world, with plenty of money to maintain our position; or we might go to New York and from there to England and the continent." "Yes, we could do all that if we had the money," said the Madam; "but you forget that at this time we cannot use it." "You have plenty of money of your own and you might let me stop with you for three or four years, as by that time we could use the express' money without any risk." "Yes, I would gladly keep you for years if that is all you want." "When do you expect the man who exchanges your money? Could you not get him here at once? Then we could go." "I could write to him," replied the Madam, "and he would come at once, provided my letter reached him, but sometimes I have to wait two or three months after writing for him before he makes his appearance. He travels a good deal, and comes to the place where he has his letters directed only once in a while. He is a strange man, but very honest. I will write to him to-night, if you say so, so that we can soon hear from him and get him here." They arrived in Jenkintown without arranging any decided plan. After tea they again met. Mrs. Maroney said that she was so fatigued that even her brain was so weary that she felt completely broken down, and must retire early. Rivers arrived from Philadelphia on the cars long before the women, and went down to see Josh. Josh. had remained at home all day with his wife, and was glad of the excuse Rivers's coming gave him to go down to Stemples's. He was moody and would not talk much. Even Barclay could not get a word out of him. He was willing to drink, but spoke only in monosyllables. At nine o'clock he went home. Rivers got into Cox's yard and watched the house for about two hours, when finding all quiet, he returned home and went to bed. _CHAPTER XXVIII._ Time rolled on, and the third day after the trip to Philadelphia, Madam Imbert was with Mrs. Maroney, who talked incessantly about giving up the money. She alluded to Cox's idea of the question. He said that he would never give White the money; that he did not know the man, and that he would trust no one with forty thousand dollars. He declared that he had now got the money, and that he was going to keep it. She insisted that they should let her arrange the matter to suit herself. Mrs. Cox was, like her husband, bound that White should not get the money. Every thing appeared against White's chances of getting the money. At this time they were seated in a secluded part of the garden. Mrs. Maroney glanced around, saw that no one was near, and then said: "Madam Imbert, you are accustomed to attend to affairs like mine; won't you take the money, claim it as your own, and go with me to the West? You could then find your friend, and he would be willing to exchange the money for two or three thousand dollars--wouldn't he? I want to get away from here; my sister is against me, and Josh. treats me as if he was my equal, or superior." Madam Imbert saw she must act very prudently. Mrs. Maroney must be quietly dealt with. She wished her to give the money to White, as if she took the money she would have to be a witness in the case. She wished to avoid this, but if she could not succeed in making her turn the money over to White, as a last resort she would take possession of it herself. She therefore replied: "No, I don't like to take it; I have enough of my own to look after. If my poor husband were only out of jail he would get it changed for you in short order. I don't want any more money about me at present; it would go hard with me if I were discovered with the money on my person." "There is little danger of that," said Mrs. Maroney. "I carried it all the way from Montgomery and was not much inconvenienced by it; you must help me." "Mrs. Maroney, if I were in your place, I would do exactly as my husband wished." "Yes, yes," said she, "but who knows White? I never saw him." "We will let the matter drop for the present. I will do all I can to assist you. I wrote to my friend last night, and he will send an answer directed to you in my care." Mrs. Maroney was greatly pleased and went home in high spirits. On the following day she got a letter from Maroney; he had seen White, and he would be in Jenkintown in a day or two. He said White was opposed to dealing with women, and if he did not get the money on his first visit, he would never come back. He finished by entreating her to give up all cheerfully, remembering that it was for the good of both. This letter arrived in the evening, and Mrs. Maroney, after perusing it, told Madam Imbert that she had made up her mind never to give up the money. "I will burn it before I will give it to White," said she. Madam Imbert was rather startled at this avowal, but on a second consideration was convinced that it was a bit of braggadocio, and that there was not the slightest fear of her carrying such a threat into execution. She found Mrs. Maroney in too unreasonable a state of mind to accomplish any thing with her that day, and she therefore returned to Stemples's. The next day was decidedly a breezy day for all. Early in the morning Mrs. Maroney sent for Madam Imbert, who at once joined her at Cox's. Mrs. Maroney met her at the door. "O, Madam Imbert, I am so glad you have come! Josh. has been acting in a most independent manner. I almost believe he is right, in protesting that he will not allow the money to go." Madam Imbert appealed to Mrs. Maroney's sense of duty. She depicted in glowing terms the happiness of the wife who looks only to her husband's interests, and makes sacrifices in his behalf. She drew a touching picture of Maroney's sufferings in jail, and tried to impress upon her the conviction that it was more than probable that he had taken the money so as to be able to place her in a situation where she could command any luxury. What did Cox know about suffering, or of the steps her husband found it necessary to take in order to effect his release? When Maroney took the forty thousand dollars, he had to ship it at once down the Alabama river, and now they could see how wise he was in so doing. He had displayed consummate ability in every movement he had so far made, and was it at all likely that he had lost his cunning? "He loves you," said she, "and would do any thing for you. Your duty as a wife is plain and simple; do as your husband wishes you to do." Madam Imbert's reasoning was unanswerable, but to Mrs. Maroney it was a bitter pill. Without saying a word, she led the way into the house, where they met Cox, just coming up from the cellar. She had informed both Josh. and his wife that she had made a confidante of Madam Imbert, and they thought she had done wisely. "Josh., have you been moving the money?" demanded she. "No!" he replied, in rather a surly tone. Then turning to Madam Imbert, he said: "You must have the same opinion of this matter as I! I think it folly to give the money up to White. No one knows about this would-be book peddler, and I will not give up the money to such a man. Let him come to me and I will talk to him." Josh. strutted about the room with the air of a six-footer. "I'll have it out of him in short order. I'll show him he can't pull the wool over my eyes, as he seems to have done over Nat.'s. I'll be d----d if I can understand it." Cox was ably seconded in his opinion by his wife. Mrs. Maroney had very little to say. Madam Imbert said that, in her opinion, Josh. was entirely wrong. Maroney knew better than they what was for his interest. As for her, if her husband was to tell her to give up all she had, she would cheerfully do so, as she knew he was best able to judge what was for the benefit of them both. The day passed in a continual wrangle. Madam Imbert could hardly get away from Mrs. Maroney long enough to eat her meals. Mrs. Maroney and Josh. dealt exclusively in brandy. Toward evening Josh. proclaimed his intention of "raising" the money, and starting with it that night for the West. He would hide himself until Maroney got out of jail, when he would return and deliver the money over to him. Josh. was sublime in the purity and philanthropy of his motives. He did not want a cent of the money; not he! but he could not consent to see his brother-in-law swindled while he stood by and calmly looked on, without making an effort in his behalf. No! this he could not do. To his own serious inconvenience, he would voluntarily tear himself from his family, impose upon himself the task of becoming the watch-dog of Nat.'s treasure, and for a time lose himself in the wilderness of the West. Madam Imbert thought _his_ would be a clear case of "Though lost to sight, to memory _dear_," but did not say so. Mrs. Maroney rather took the wind out of his sails by saying: "Don't you dare to 'raise' the money until I tell you to! I am in no hurry to have it moved; the cellar has proved a safe hiding place so far, and I see no reason why it should not so remain. You will please remember that it belongs to Nat. and me. I am able to take care of it, so you may just let it alone." Josh. said no more, but mentally washing his hands of the whole transaction, started for Stemples's. He found Rivers and Barclay there, but said nothing about what had happened, further than that he was having trouble at home. In the evening Mrs. Maroney received a letter from her husband, stating that the book-peddler would call the next day. The next day was to be an eventful one for me. By noon I should know the fate of my enterprise. I had no doubts about what the results would be, but I should then have the proofs in hand to show my employers that the confidence they had bestowed upon me had not been misplaced; that the theory I had advanced and worked upon was the correct one; that my profession, which had been dragged down by unprincipled adventurers until the term "detective" was synonymous with rogue, was, when properly attended to and honestly conducted, one of the most useful and indispensable adjuncts to the preservation of the lives and property of the people. The Divine administers consolation to the soul; the physician strives to relieve the pains of the body; while the detective cleanses society from its impurities, makes crime hideous by dragging it to light, when it would otherwise thrive in darkness, and generally improves mankind by proving that wrong acts, no matter how skilfully covered up, are sure to be found out, and their perpetrators punished. The great preventive of crime, is the fear of detection. There are quacks in other professions as well as in mine, and people should lay the blame where it belongs, upon the quacks, and not upon the profession. In the evening I received a letter from Madam Imbert, telling me of the difficulties in the way of White's receiving the money. She was full of hope, and said she thought she could manage to make Mrs. Maroney give up the money; but if all else failed she would take the money herself. It was often offered to her by Mrs. Maroney, and Josh. had said he had no objections to her receiving it. She would make arrangements so that if White did not get the money, she would. The money would be in Philadelphia the next evening if she had to walk in with it herself. The recovery of forty or fifty thousand dollars, to-day, is considered a small operation; but in 1859, before the war, the amount was looked upon as perfectly enormous. I showed Madam Imbert's letter to the Vice-President. He was greatly pleased to find success so near at hand, and agreed to make a little trip with me in the morning. White was with me, in Philadelphia, and I made all my arrangements for the following day's work. I was up bright and early the next morning. The sun rose in a cloudless sky, and the weather promised to be fine. It would most likely be excessively hot by noon, but the morning was fresh and balmy. White, in his character of a book-peddler, was to go into Jenkintown on foot, so as to give the impression that he had walked out from the city. Shanks was to drive him to within about two miles of Jenkintown, where White was to get out and walk in, while Shanks would drive back and wait for him at the Rising Sun, a tavern on the road. The Vice-President and I drove over from Chestnut Hill, put up our team at the Rising Sun, and took up our position as near the probable scene of action as was prudent. Early in the morning, just as day began to dawn, Rivers came in and reported the condition of affairs. He had watched Cox's through the night, but aside from high words there had been no demonstration. I sent a note to Madam Imbert by him, with instructions to deliver it to her as soon as she was up. I told her to be sure and do as she said she would--get the money to-day at all hazards--by storm, if necessary, as I did not like to trust Cox another day. _CHAPTER XXIX._ At Jenkintown there was no lull in the fight. The battle was going on gloriously. Breakfast at Cox's was a meagre meal, even the children were neglected, as all the grown portion of the household were on the lookout for the book-peddler. "Sister Ann! Sister Ann! do you see any one coming?" was the cry. Every once in a while one of them would go to the gate and look anxiously down the road, in the direction of Philadelphia. Mrs. Maroney was impatiently awaiting the arrival of Madam Imbert. She did not have to wait long, as the Madam came down immediately after breakfast. Her commanding figure and decided expression made her appear like a general giving orders. She was perfectly calm, while all the rest were so excited that they did not know what to do or say. She controlled the position. Mrs. Maroney had not slept any and was still unable to decide upon her action. She strolled out with the Madam a short distance, thinking to find relief in a quiet chat. She said she was filled with doubts and fears. She was afraid to trust Josh., and he might go off at any moment with the packages. Madam Imbert told her that there was only one thing to be done, and that was to give up the packages to White as her husband ordered. "Are you sure," said she, "that the letter is in your husband's handwriting?" Mrs. Maroney looked at her in a startled manner and pulled the letter from its hiding place in the bosom of her dress. She scanned it over carefully and said: "Yes, it is Nat.'s writing." "Then there is nothing to do but to give it up. If my husband ordered me I would gladly give up all I have in this world to please him." They remained away from the house for some time, and when they returned it was nearly noon. On looking down the street they discovered a book-peddler slowly toiling along from the direction of Philadelphia and evidently bending his steps towards Cox's. As Mrs. Maroney saw him coming along sweltering in the sun and bending under the weight of his load of books, she gave an involuntary start, and Madam Imbert, on whose arm she leaned, felt that she was trembling with excitement. Cox stood beside his wife in the door-way with his teeth clinched. His wife looked unutterable things, but neither uttered a word. Madam Imbert and Mrs. Maroney went into the yard and stood leaning over the gate, watching the peddler, who was rapidly drawing near. He arrived at the gate at the appointed time. "Do you wish to buy any books?" asked he, at the same time handing Mrs. Maroney a novel to look at, which he opened so as to disclose a note. He spoke to her in a low tone and said: "I am from prison," then glancing at the note, "I think that is for you." She took the novel, and, holding it open as if reading it, scanned the contents of the note: "MY DEAREST WIFE: This is the book-peddler. You will want to buy books from him. Buy what you want. Give him the packages for me. He is honest. "All is well. NAT." When she had read the note she stood looking at it, apparently unable to speak. Madam Imbert looked at her, and as she began to fear that some of the neighbors might notice the long stay of the peddler, said: "Have you no message for the man? Time is precious!" "Yes," she answered, looking up as from a trance. Madam Imbert spoke in a low tone: "Tell him to meet you down the lane." "Yes," said she, "I will meet you down the lane at two o'clock and take some books from you." The peddler left a few novels and walked off. Mrs. Maroney and Madam Imbert walked into the house. Now was the time for Madam Imbert to show her power. "Come, Mrs. Maroney, be quick! You must act at once! Get the money for the book-peddler, quick!" Mrs. Maroney seemed to act mechanically. Madam Imbert's strong will had asserted a power over her that she could not resist. They went into the cellar accompanied by Josh. and his wife. "Dig the money up," commanded Mrs. Maroney still in the same mechanical tone. Josh. hesitated. "Give me the spade!" said Madam Imbert. "Show me where the money is secreted!" Then, turning to Josh. and his wife, she said: "_You are fools!_ You would not only ruin Mrs. Maroney, but yourselves. Maroney knows best what is for his interest." Mrs. Maroney pointed out the spot where the money was buried. The Madam struck the spade into the ground. "Stop, I'll do it!" said Josh.; "if you are bound to make a beggar of yourself it is no fault of mine." The money was about eighteen inches under the level of the cellar floor, wrapped up in a piece of oil skin. It was soon unearthed and taken up stairs. Mrs. Maroney said: "I will go and get the buggy, or--no! Josh.! you go to Stemples's and get his team; tell him it is for me." Josh., without waiting to fill up the hole, started off. Madam Imbert wrapped the money in two newspapers, and when Josh. came with the team, which he soon did, put it into the front part of the buggy and covered it with the apron, and, getting in with Mrs. Maroney, drove down the lane. White, when he received the message from Mrs. Maroney, returned to the Rising Sun and reported to me. We (the Vice-President and I) secreted ourselves under some magnolias growing close by the lane, and near where the meeting would take place. At the appointed time the book-peddler was seen by us coming up the lane, and at almost the same moment a buggy came in sight going down. It was a moment of breathless interest to both of us. They met almost directly opposite to where we were concealed. Madam Imbert said: "Let us have some books!" The peddler lifted his satchel into the buggy; the Madam hurriedly emptied it of its contents, and holding it open jammed the bundle of money into it and handed it back to the peddler. Not a word more was said. Madam Imbert turned the team around and started the horses on a fast trot toward Jenkintown, while the peddler sweltered along under the broiling sun in the direction of the tavern. [Illustration: "_The peddler lifted his satchel into the buggy; the Madam hurriedly emptied it of its contents, and holding it open, jammed the bundle of money into it, and handed it back to the peddler._"--Page 268.] Madam Imbert drove up to Stemples's, took the books, which were wrapped in papers, to her room, and invited Mrs. Maroney up to take some brandy. Mrs. Maroney was in a passive state, and did everything Madam Imbert told her to do, as if powerless to resist. She remained for some time with Madam Imbert, but finally said, in a pitiful tone: "Well, I believe I am sick. This excitement has nearly killed me." Madam Imbert advised her to lie down, and accompanied her to Cox's. Josh. had gone out with Rivers, and Mrs. Cox refused to be seen. Madam Imbert administered an opiate to Mrs. Maroney, and then returned to the tavern. Toward evening she hired Stemples's team and drove into Philadelphia. The Vice-President and I remained concealed until the two women were well out of sight, when we overtook White, who was slowly toiling down the road. I received the satchel containing the money from him. From the time he received the money until he handed it over to me, I had had my eye on him--not exactly because I did not trust him, but I thought it wrong to lead the poor fellow into temptation. We went to the Rising Sun, where we took dinner, but did not mention the subject which was uppermost in our minds. After dinner we drove into the city and placed the money in the vaults of the Express Company. The Vice-President at once telegraphed to the President of the company to come from New York, as he did not wish to count the money until he was present. In the evening Madam Imbert arrived at the hotel, and finding I was in consultation with the Vice-President, sent word in that she would like to see me. When I came to her she eagerly asked: "Is the money all right?" "All right," I answered. When she heard this her strength seemed suddenly to leave her, and she nearly fainted. The victory was complete, but her faculties had been strained to the utmost in accomplishing it, and she felt completely exhausted. She had the proud satisfaction of knowing that to a woman belonged the honors of the day. The President arrived on the third of August, and we met at the Lapier House, where we counted the money. The package proved to contain thirty-nine thousand five hundred and fifteen dollars--within four hundred and eighty-five dollars of the amount last stolen. The officers of the Adams Express Company were much pleased at my success, and perfectly satisfied with everything. The money had been recovered, and the case had come to a stand-still. I held a consultation with the President and Vice-President, and asked them if they had any further orders for me. The President said I had better finish the operation, and not give up until Maroney had been convicted and placed in the Penitentiary. I had done them invaluable service so far, but it still remained to "cap the climax" by bringing the guilty party to justice. This I assured him would soon be accomplished, and I left to give the necessary orders to my detectives. I told Madam Imbert to return to Jenkintown, and ordered Rivers and Miss Johnson also to remain as before. The Vice-President also told De Forest to remain in Jenkintown for the present. Green was to continue in Philadelphia. Roch, who had been sent back to Montgomery, was to await orders there, as was also Porter. White was to attend to Maroney, while Bangs was to continue in Philadelphia in charge of all. _CHAPTER XXX._ On the fifteenth of August, White called on Maroney in Eldridge street jail. He detailed what had transpired at Jenkintown, and told Maroney that he had the money hid in a safe place in Philadelphia. This was undoubtedly the truth, as the money was safe in the vaults of the Adams Express. I deemed it best to curtail expenses as soon as possible, and instructed White to impress upon Maroney that Jenkintown was not a safe place for his wife, and that she had better leave there. He was to endeavor to get Maroney to send her to the west, and to Chicago, if possible. He told Maroney that he was afraid some of the express men were watching his wife, and if he did not look out she might be induced to "blow" on him and tell all. He dwelt on his repugnance to being mixed up with women with such effect that Maroney was convinced that she had better go to some other part of the country, and so wrote to her at once. He told her she had better go west. She was so near the headquarters of the company that he feared they might find her out, and make trouble for her. He hinted that he was not entirely satisfied with De Forest, and wished her to go as soon as possible. White said he was having the key to the pouch made, and would be able to show it to him in a day or two. He did not wish any one in the jail to see him with the key, and wished Maroney to be careful that no prisoners were in their neighborhood when he disclosed it. When he did bring the key Maroney examined it closely and expressed himself well pleased with it. The day set for the trial of the suit in New York was near at hand, and Maroney would have to prove that he had not taken the fifty thousand dollars. He did not much care how the suit went, as he was confident he would be acquitted at his criminal trial in Montgomery. When the suit came off, we managed to get a judgment against him for the fifty thousand dollars in such a manner that it was not necessary to let him know that the money had been recovered, or that White was working against him. He was of course the principal witness in his own behalf, and if wholesale perjury could have saved him he would have been acquitted beyond a doubt. The day after the trial White called on him and he laughed heartily at the judgment which had been obtained against him. "Wait till I get to Montgomery," he said, "and then they will find that their judgment does not amount to shucks. White, I wish you would settle up my matters as soon as possible." "I am going to Charleston this evening to see if I can't pass some of the money, and must hurry off and pack my satchel, as the train leaves at four. Good-by for a time; I will write and let you know how I succeed," said White, as he prepared to leave. "I know you will succeed," remarked Maroney, and White hurriedly walked out of jail. This was all done to blind Maroney as to White's real character. There was no necessity of White's leaving the city to accomplish his purpose. All he had to do was to write letters and send them to the agents of the Adams Express at the different points where Maroney supposed him to be, and they would mail them to Maroney. He pretended that he was having great trouble in trying to exchange the money, and wrote that he would be in New York in a few days. At the end of a week he walked down to the jail. He met Maroney with a troubled look on his face, and said that he had been frightened away from Charleston after he had exchanged about five hundred dollars. He was doing very well when he found the detectives were close after him, and he had to leave without his carpet bag. "It is up-hill work, Maroney, trying to exchange this money. The Adams Express are keeping a sharp lookout every where, and I have had a number of detectives on my track. I have no money of my own and need all of yours. So far I have exchanged only enough to get me to Montgomery, and to pay the girl for stuffing the Express money into Chase's pocket." Maroney gave White what money he had, and told him to go on and fix Chase as soon as possible. Mrs. Maroney had all the money, so that we had to foot all White's bills. The company had already been at heavy expense, and I was desirous of stopping all unavoidable expenditures. White remained in Philadelphia or New York, as the case might be, performing on paper a journey through the South. Maroney received letters from him from Augusta, Ga., New Orleans, Mobile and Montgomery. He seemed to meet with many adventures and reverses, but was slowly and surely accomplishing his mission. He had the girl in Montgomery, and she was rapidly winning her way to the innermost recesses of Chase's heart. In a couple of days came another letter. Chase was captivated, and had so far worked on the confiding, innocent nature of the girl as to prevail on her to consent to let him into her room that night. She had the money to put into Chase's pocket, and all was going well. Maroney could not sleep, so anxiously did he look forward for the coming of the next letter; he paced his cell all night. What would have been his feelings if he could have looked through about a mile of brick and mortar to where White was snoring in bed? The next day no letter came. He grew almost frantic, and was so irritable and excited that his fellow prisoners wondered what had come over him. The following day the anxiously expected letter arrived. He hastily broke it open and found that the faithful White had been true to his trust. Chase had gone into the girl's room, McGibony had seized him as he came out, a search was instituted and the stolen money and a pouch key had been discovered in his pocket. "Hurrah!" said Maroney, "I am all right now! Boys, here is five dollars, the last cent I have! We will make a jolly day of it." We will now return to our friends in Jenkintown. It took some time for Maroney to impress upon his wife the necessity of her going West. She had little money, for though she had pocketed the proceeds of the sale of her husband's livery stable, and other effects, in Montgomery, her expenses had been heavy, and the money had dwindled away until she was nearly penniless. One day Mrs. Maroney said to Madam Imbert: "Wouldn't you like to go out west somewhere and settle down for a while?" "It makes no difference to me where I go," she replied, "I have to see the gentleman who exchanges my money for me, once in a while; but no matter where I go, he is sure to come to me when I send for him. Why would it not be a good plan to go to some place in the South? Swansboro, N. C., is a good place." "Yes," remarked Mrs. Maroney, "but it is so dull!" "What do you say to Jackson, Mississippi? It is a beautiful place." "No, we don't want to go South now, it is altogether too warm. Were you ever in Chicago, Madam Imbert?" "No; but it is a good place to summer in, I understand." "Well, let's go there; will you?" "Yes, certainly, if you wish," said Madam Imbert; and they at once began to arrange for their departure. It was decided that Madam Imbert should go ahead to Chicago, and see if she could rent a furnished house for them. She started off, and, as a matter of course, easily accomplished her purpose. I had a house in Chicago, where I lodged my female detectives, and as I had only two in the city at the time, I easily found them a boarding-house, and turned the house over to Madam Imbert. The servants were well trained, and understood their business thoroughly. Everything being arranged, Madam Imbert wrote to Mrs. Maroney and Miss Johnson, telling them to come on. Two weeks after, Mrs. Maroney, Miss Johnson, and Flora arrived in Chicago, and took up their quarters with Madam Imbert. It was necessary to have a young man to run their errands, and Shanks was promptly furnished them. White did not need his services any longer, as he was able to run his own errands. Business was crowding fast, and the time set for Maroney's trial at Montgomery was drawing near. The Governor of Alabama requested the Governor of New York to deliver Maroney for trial in Montgomery, which request was immediately acceded to. I sent Maroney South in charge of an officer from Philadelphia, of course "shadowed" by my own men. This was the last time that Roch was on duty in this case. He had done good service already in its early stages, and might be of service again. The Vice-President accompanied the parties. When they arrived in Montgomery, Maroney was not met and escorted to the Exchange by a bevy of admiring friends. On the contrary, he was led to jail. Hope never forsook him. He received letters from White, who said all was going well, and he expected to get the funds exchanged soon. Maroney wrote in reply that he hoped he would hurry up, as he wished to give a part of the money to his lawyer in New York. The lawyer was evidently expecting to reap a rich harvest at the company's expense. Little more need be said. The Circuit Court was in session, His Honor John Gill Shorter, presiding, and Maroney would soon be tried before him. He was confident that he would be acquitted and had all his plans made as to what he would do when he was liberated. Not the shadow of a doubt had crossed his mind as to the fealty of White. He heard that he was in Montgomery and received a note from him, saying that all was well; that the Adams Express had compelled him to come--an unwilling witness--to see if they could not force the secret from him, but they would find that they had "collared" the wrong man this time. Maroney was braced up by this note. He knew that White would not give up; he felt confident of that! It was the morning of the trial, and before nightfall he would be a free man. It was a lovely day and the court-room was packed with spectators, among whom were many of Maroney's former friends. He walked proudly into the court-room, between two deputies, with an air that plainly said, "I am bound to win!" His friends clustered around him and vied with each other as to who could show him the most attention. Foremost among them was Porter, to whom he gave an extra shake of the hand. I will not dwell upon the trial. The witnesses for the prosecution were called one by one. They were the employés of the company who were in any way connected with the shipment or the discovery of the loss of the money, which ought to have been sent to Atlanta, when, in reality, it had gone down the Alabama in Maroney's old trunk. The witnesses proved that the money had disappeared in some mysterious way; but they did not in the slightest degree fasten the guilt upon Maroney. His spirits rose as the trial progressed, and his counsel could not but smile as he heard the weak testimony he had to break down. He had expected a toughly contested case, but the prosecutors had presented no case at all. At length, the crier of the court called "John R. White." As John R. White did not immediately appear in answer to the call, Maroney seemed, during the brief period of silence, to suddenly realize how critical was his position. His cheek blanched with fear. He seemed striving to speak, but not a word could he articulate. As White deliberately walked up to the witness-stand, Maroney seemed at once to realize that White would never perjure himself for the sake of befriending him. His eyes were filled with horror and he gasped for breath. A glass of water was handed to him. He gulped it down, and, vainly endeavoring to force back the tears from his eyes, in a hoarse, shaky voice, he exclaimed: "Oh, God!" Then, turning to his counsel, he said: "Tell the court I plead guilty. He," pointing to White, "knows the whole. I am guilty!! I am gone!!!" This ended the matter. The counsel entered a plea of guilty and the Judge sentenced Maroney to pass ten years in the Alabama Penitentiary, at _hard labor_. 
23208	----	Transcriber's note: The book's Frontispiece was missing. There were no other illustrations. HOW JANICE DAY WON by HELEN BEECHER LONG Author of "Janice Day the Young Homemaker," "The Testing of Janice Day," "The Mission of Janice Day," Etc. Illustrated by Corinne Turner The Goldsmith Publishing Co. Cleveland Copyright, 1917, by Sully & Kleinteich CONTENTS CHAPTER I. TROUBLE FROM NEAR AND FAR II. "TALKY" DEXTER, INDEED III. "THE SEVENTH ABOMINATION" IV. A RIFT IN THE HONEYMOON V. "THE BLUEBIRD--FOR HAPPINESS" VI. THE TENTACLES OF THE MONSTER VII. SWEPT ON BY THE CURRENT VIII. REAL TROUBLE IX. HOW NELSON TOOK IT X. HOW POLKTOWN TOOK IT XI. "MEN MUST WORK WHILE WOMEN MUST WEEP" XII. AN UNEXPECTED EMERGENCY XIII. INTO THE LION'S DEN XIV. A DECLARATION OF WAR XV. AND NOW IT IS DISTANT TROUBLE XVI. ONE MATTER COMES TO A HEAD XVII. THE OPENING OF THE CAMPAIGN XVIII. HOPEWELL SELLS HIS VIOLIN XIX. THE GOLD COIN XX. SUSPICIONS XXI. WHAT WAS IN THE PAPER XXII. DEEP WATERS XXIII. JOSEPH US COMES OUT FOR PROHIBITION XXIV. ANOTHER GOLD PIECE XXV. IN DOUBT XXVI. THE TIDE TURNS XXVII. THE TEMPEST XXVIII. THE ENEMY RETREATS XXIX. THE TRUTH AT LAST XXX. MARM PARRADAY DOES HER DUTY HOW JANICE DAY WON CHAPTER I TROUBLE FROM NEAR AND FAR At the corner of High Street, where the lane led back to the stables of the Lake View Inn, Janice Day stopped suddenly, startled by an eruption of sound from around an elbow of the lane--a volley of voices, cat-calls, and ear-splitting whistles which shattered Polktown's usual afternoon somnolence. One youthful imitator expelled a laugh like the bleating of a goat: "Na-ha-ha-ha! Ho! Jim Nar-ha-nay! There's a brick in your hat!" Another shout of laugher and a second boy exclaimed: "Look out, old feller! You'll spill it!" All the voices seemed those of boys; but this was an hour when most of the town lads were supposed to be under the more or less eagle eye of Mr. Nelson Haley, the principal of the Polktown school. Janice attended the Middletown Seminary, and this chanced to be a holiday at that institution. She stood anxiously on the corner now to see if her cousin, Marty, was one of this crowd of noisy fellows. With stumbling feet, and with the half dozen laughing, mocking boys tailing him, a bewhiskered, rough-looking, shabby man came into sight. His appearance on the pleasant main thoroughfare of the little lakeside town quite spoiled the prospect. Before, it had been a lovely scene. Young Spring, garbed only in the tender greens of the quickened earth and the swelling buds of maple and lilac, had accompanied Janice Day down Hillside Avenue into High Street from the old Day house where she lived with her Uncle Jason, her Aunt 'Mira, and Marty. All the neighbors had seen Janice and had smiled at her; and those whose eyes were anointed by Romance saw Spring dancing by the young girl's side. Her eyes sparkled; there was a rose in either cheek; her trim figure in the brown frock, well-built walking shoes of tan, and pretty toque, was an effective bit of life in the picture, the background of which was the sloping street to the steamboat dock and the beautiful, blue, dancing waters of the lake beyond. An intoxicated man on the streets of Polktown during the three years of Janice Day's sojourn here was almost unknown. There had been no demand for the sale of liquor in the town until Lem Parraday, proprietor of the Lake View Inn, applied to the Town Council for a bar license. The request had been granted without much opposition. Mr. Cross Moore, President of the Council, held a large mortgage on the Parraday premises, and it was whispered that this fact aided in putting the license through in so quiet a way. It was agreed that Polktown was growing. The "boom" had started some months before. Already the sparkling waters of the lake were plied by a new _Constance Colfax_, and the C. V. Railroad was rapidly completing its branch which was to connect Polktown with the Eastern seaboard. Whereas in the past a half dozen traveling men might visit the town in a week and put up at the Inn, there had been through this Winter a considerable stream of visitors. And it was expected that the Inn, as well as every house that took boarders in the town, would be well patronized during the coming Summer. To Janice Day the Winter had been lovely. She had been very busy. Well had she fulfilled her own tenet of "Do Something." In service she found continued joy. Janice loved Polktown, and almost everybody in Polktown loved her. At least, everybody knew her, and when these young rascals trailing the drunken man spied the accusing countenance of Janice they fell back in confusion. She was thankful her cousin Marty was not one of them; yet several, she knew, belonged to the boys' club, the establishment of which had led to the opening of Polktown's library and free reading-room. However, the boys pursued Tim Narnay no farther. They slunk back into the lane, and finally, with shrill whoops and laughter, disappeared. The besotted man stood wavering on the curbstone, undecided, it seemed, upon his future course. Janice would have passed on. The appearance of the fellow merely shocked and disgusted her. Her experience of drunkenness and with drinking people, had been very slight indeed. Gossip's tongue was busy with the fact that several weak or reckless men now hung about the Lake View Inn more than was good for them; and Janice saw herself that some boys had taken to loafing here. But nobody in whom she was vitally interested seemed in danger of acquiring the habit of using liquor just because Lem Parraday sold it. The ladies of the sewing society of the Union Church missed "Marm" Parraday's brown face and vigorous tongue. It was said that she strongly disapproved of the change at the Inn, but Lem had overruled her for once. "And, poor woman!" thought Janice now, "if she has to see such sights as this about the Inn, I don't wonder that she is ashamed." The train of her thought was broken at the moment, and her footsteps stayed. Running across the street came a tiny girl, on whose bare head the Spring sunshine set a crown of gold. Such a wealth of tangled, golden hair Janice had never before seen, and the flowerlike face beneath it would have been very winsome indeed had it been clean. She was a neglected-looking little creature; her patched clothing needed repatching, her face and hands were begrimed, and---- "Goodness only knows when there was ever a comb in that hair!" sighed Janice. "I would dearly love to clean her up and put something decent to wear upon her, and----" She did not finish her wish because of an unexpected happening. The little girl came so blithely across the street only to run directly into the wavering figure of the intoxicated Jim Narnay. She screamed as Narnay seized her by one thin arm. "What ye got there?" he demanded, hoarsely, trying to catch the other tiny, clenched fist. "Oh! don't do it! don't do it!" begged the child, trying her best to slip away from his rough grasp. "Ye got money, ye little sneak!" snarled the man, and he forced the girl's hand open with a quick wrench and seized the dime she held. He flung her aside as though she had been a wisp of straw, and she would have fallen had not Janice caught her. Indignantly the older girl faced the drunken ruffian. "You wicked man! How can you? Give her back that money at once! Why, you--you ought to be arrested!" "Aw, g'wan!" growled the fellow. "It's my money." He stumbled back into the lane again--without doubt making for the rear door of the Inn barroom from which he had just come. The child was sobbing. "Wait!" exclaimed Janice, both eager and angry now. "Don't cry. I'll get your ten cents back. I'll go right in and tell Mr. Parraday and he'll make him give it up. At any rate he won't give him a drink for it." The child caught Janice's skirt with one grimy hand. "Don't--don't do that, Miss," she said, soberly. "Why not?" "'Twon't do no good. Pop's all right when he's sober, and he'll be sorry for this. I oughter kep' my eyes open. Ma told me to. I could easy ha' dodged him if I'd been thinkin'. But--but that's all ma had in the house and she needed the meal." "He--he is your father?" gasped Janice. "Oh, yes. I'm Sophie Narnay. That's pop. And he's all right when he's sober," repeated the child. Janice Day's indignation evaporated. Now she could feel only sympathy for the little creature that was forced to acknowledge such a man for a parent. "Ma's goin' to be near 'bout distracted," Sophie pursued, shaking her tangled head. "That's the only dime she had." "Never mind," gasped Janice, feeling the tears very near to the surface. "I'll let you have the dime you need. Is--is your papa always like that?" "Oh, no! Oh, no! He works in the woods sometimes. But since the tavern's been open he's been drinkin' more. Ma says she hopes it'll burn down," added Sophie, with perfect seriousness. Suddenly Janice felt that she could echo that desire herself. Ethically two wrongs do not make a right; but it is human nature to see the direct way to the end and wish for it, not always regarding ethical considerations. Janice became at that moment converted to the cause of making Polktown a dry spot again on the State map. "My dear!" she said, with her arm about the tangle-haired little Sophie, "I am sorry for--for your father. Maybe we can all help him to stop drinking. I--I hope he doesn't abuse you." "He's awful good when he's sober," repeated the little thing, wistfully. "But he ain't been sober much lately." "How many are there of you, Sophie?" "There's ma and me and Johnny and Eddie and the baby. We ain't named the baby. Ma says she ain't sure we'll raise her and 'twould be no use namin' her if she ain't going to be raised, would it?" "No-o--perhaps not," admitted Janice, rather startled by this philosophy. "Don't you have the doctor for her?" "Once. But it costs money. And ma's so busy she can't drag clean up the hill to Doc Poole's office very often. And then--well, there ain't been much money since pop come out of the woods this Spring." Her old-fashioned talk gave Janice a pretty clear insight into the condition of affairs at the Narnay house. She asked the child where she lived and learned the locality (down near the shore of Pine Cove) and how to get to it. She made a mental note of this for a future visit to the place. "Here's another dime, Sophie," she said, finding the cleanest spot on the little girl's cheek to kiss. "Your father's out of sight now, and you can run along to the store and get the meal." "You're a good 'un, Miss," declared Sophie, nodding. "Come and see the baby. She's awful pretty, but ma says she's rickety. Good-bye." The little girl was away like the wind, her broken shoes clattering over the flagstones. Janice looked after her and sighed. There seemed a sudden weight pressing upon her mind. The sunshine was dimmed; the sweet odors of Spring lost their spice in her nostrils. Instead of strolling down to the dock as she had intended, she turned about and, with lagging step, took her homeward way. The sight of this child's trouble, the thought of Narnay's weakness and what it meant to his unfortunate family, brought to mind with crushing force Janice's own trouble. And this personal trouble was from afar. Amid the kaleidoscopic changes in Mexican affairs, Janice's father had been laboring for three years and more to hold together the mining properties conceded to him and his fellow-stockholders by the administration of Porfirio Diaz. In the battle-ridden State of Chihuahua Mr. Broxton Day was held a virtual prisoner, by first one warring faction and then another. At one time, being friendly with a certain chief of the belligerents, Mr. Day had taken out ore and had had the mine in good running condition. Some money had flowed into the coffers of the mining company. Janice benefited in a way during this season of plenty. Now, of late, the Yaquis had swept down from the mountains, Mr. Day's laborers had run away, and his own life was placed in peril again. He wrote little about his troubles to his daughter, living so far away in the Vermont village, but his bare mention of conditions was sufficient to spur Janice's imagination. She was anxious in the extreme. "If Daddy would only come home on a visit as he had expected to this Spring!" was the longing thought now in her mind. "Oh, dear me! What matter if the season does change? It won't bring him back to me. I'd--I'd sell my darling car and take the money and run away to him if I dared!" This was a desperate thought indeed, for the Kremlin automobile her father had bought Janice the year before remained the apple of her eye. That very morning Marty had rolled it out of the garage he and his father had built for it, and started to overhaul it for his cousin. Marty had become something of a mechanic since the arrival of the Kremlin at the Day place. The roads were fast drying up, and Marty promised that the car would soon be in order. But the thought now served to inspire no anticipation of pleasure in Janice's troubled mind. She passed Major Price just at the foot of Hillside Avenue. The major was Polktown's moneyed man--really the magnate of the village. His was the largest house on the hill--a broad, high-pillared colonial mansion with a great, shaded, sloping lawn in front. An important looking house was the major's and the major was important looking, too. But Janice noted more particularly than ever before that there were many purple veins distinctly lined upon the major's nose and cheeks and that his eyes were moist and wavering in their glance. He used a cane with a flourish; but his legs had an unsteadiness that a cane could not correct. "Good day! Good day, Miss Janice! Happy to see you! Fine Spring weather--yes, yes," he said, with great cordiality, removing his silk hat. "Charming weather, indeed. It has tempted me out for a walk--yes, yes!" and he rolled by, swinging his cane and bobbing his head. Janice knew that nowadays the major's walks always led him to the Lake View Inn. Mrs. Price and Maggie did their best to hide the major's missteps, but the children on the streets, seeing the local magnate making heavy work of his journey back up the hill, would giggle and follow on behind, an amused audience. This was another victim of the change in Polktown's temperance situation. Poor Major Price---- "Hi, Janice! Did you notice the 'still' the major's got on?" called the cheerful voice of Marty, her cousin. "He's got more than he can carry comfortably already; Walky Dexter will be taking him home again. He did the other night." "No, Marty! did he?" cried the troubled girl. "Sure," chuckled Marty. "Walky says he thinks some of giving up the express business and buyin' himself a hack. Some of these old soaks around town will be glad to ride home under cover after a session at Lem Parraday's place. Think of Walky as a 'nighthawk'!" and Marty, who was a short, freckled-faced boy several years his cousin's junior, went off into a spasm of laughter. "Don't, Marty!" cried Janice, in horror. "Don't talk so lightly about it! Why, it is dreadful!" "What's dreadful? Walky getting a hack?" "Be serious," commanded his cousin, who really had gained a great deal of influence over the thoughtless Marty during the time she had lived in Polktown. "Oh, Marty! I've just seen such a dreadful thing!" "Hullo! What's that?" he asked, eyeing her curiously and ceasing his laughter. He knew now that she was in earnest. "That horrid old Jim Narnay--you know him?" "Sure," agreed Marty, beginning to grin faintly again. "He was intoxicated--really staggering drunk. And he came out of the back door of the Inn, and some boys chased him out on to the street, hooting after him. Perry Grimes and Sim Howell and some others. Old enough to know better----" "He, he!" chuckled Marty, exploding with laughter again. "Old Narnay's great fun. One of the fellows the other day told him there was a brick in his hat, and he took the old thing off to look into it to see if it was true. Then he stood there and lectured us about being truthful. He, he!" "Oh, Marty!" ejaculated Janice, in horror. "You never! You don't! You _can't_ be so mean!" "Hi tunket!" exploded the boy. "What's the matter with you? What d'ye mean? 'I never, I don't, I can't'! What sort of talk is that?" "There's nothing funny about it," his cousin said sternly. "I want to know if _you_ would mock at that poor man on the street?" "At Narnay?" "Yes." "Why not?" demanded Marty. "He's only an old drunk. And he is great fun." "He--he is disgusting! He is horrid!" cried the girl earnestly. "He is an awful, ruffianly creature, but he's nothing to laugh at. Listen, Marty!" and vividly, with all the considerable descriptive powers that she possessed, the girl repeated what had occurred when little Sophie Narnay had run into her drunken parent on the street. Marty was a boy, and not a thoughtful boy at all; but, as he listened, the grin disappeared from his face and he did not look like laughing. "Whew! The mean scamp!" was his comment. "Poor kid! Do you s'pose he hurts her?" "He hurts her--and her mother--and the two little boys--and that unnamed baby--whenever he takes money to spend for drink. It doesn't particularly matter whether he beats her. I don't think he does that, or the child would not love him and make excuses for him. But tell me, Marty Day! Is there anything funny in a man like that?" "Whew!" admitted the boy. "It does look different when you think of it that way. But some of these fellers that crook their elbows certainly do funny stunts when they've had a few!" "Marty Day!" cried Janice, clasping her hands, "I didn't notice it before. But you even _talk_ differently from the way you used to. Since the bar at the Inn has been open I believe you boys have got hold of an entirely new brand of slang." "Huh?" said Marty. "Why, it is awful! I had been thinking that Mr. Parraday's license only made a difference to himself and poor Marm Parraday and his customers. But that is not so. Everybody in Polktown is affected by the change. I am going to talk to Mr. Meddlar about it, or to Elder Concannon. Something ought to be done." "Hi tunket! There ye go!" chuckled Marty. "More _do something_ business. You'd better begin with Walky." "Begin what with Walky?" "Your temperance campaign, if that's what you mean," said the boy, more soberly. "Not Walky Dexter!" exclaimed Janice, amazed. "You don't mean the liquor selling has done him harm?" "Well," Marty said slowly, "Walky takes a drink now and then. Sometimes the drummers he hauls trunks and sample-cases for give him a drink. As long as he couldn't get it in town, Walky never bothered with the stuff much. But he was a little elevated Saturday night--that's right." "Oh!" gasped Janice, for the town expressman was one of her oldest friends in Polktown, and a man in whom she took a deep interest. A slow grin dawned again on Marty's freckled countenance. "Ye ought to hear him when he's had a drink or two. You called him 'Talkworthy' Dexter; and he sure is some talky when he's been imbibing." "Oh, Marty, that's dreadful!" and Janice sighed. "It's just wicked! Polktown's been a sleepy place, but it's never been wicked before." Her cousin looked at her admiringly. "Hi jinks, Janice! I bet you got it in your mind to stir things up again. I can see it in your eyes. You give Polktown its first clean-up day, and you've shook up the dry bones in general all over the shop. There's going to be _something doing_, I reckon, that'll make 'em all set up and take notice." "You talk as though I were one of these awful female reformers the funny papers tell about," Janice said, with a little laugh. "You see nothing in my eyes, Marty, unless it's tears for poor little Sophie Narnay." The cousins arrived at the old Day house and entered the grass-grown yard. It was an old-fashioned, homely place, a rambling farmhouse up to which the village had climbed. There was plenty of shade, lush grass beneath the trees, with crocuses and other Spring flowers peeping from the beds about the front porch, and sweet peas already breaking the soil at the side porch and pump-bench. A smiling, cushiony woman met Janice at the door, while Marty went whistling barnward, having the chores to do. Aunt 'Mira nowadays usually had a smile for everybody, but for Janice always. "Your uncle's home, Janice," she said, "and he brought the mail." "Oh!" cried the girl, with a quick intake of breath. "A letter from daddy?" "Wal--I dunno," said the fleshy woman. "I reckon it must be. Yet it don't look just like Brocky Day's hand of write. See--here 'tis. It's from Mexico, anyway." The girl seized the letter with a gasp. "It--it's the same stationery he uses," she said, with a note of thankfulness. "I--I guess it's all right. I'll run right up and read it." She flew upstairs to her little room--her room that looked out upon the beautiful lake. She could never bring herself to read over a letter from her father first in the presence of the rest of the family. She sat down without removing her hat and gloves, pulled a tiny hairpin from the wavy lock above her ear and slit the thin, rice-paper envelope. Two enclosures were shaken out into her lap. CHAPTER II "TALKY" DEXTER, INDEED! The moments of suspense were hard to bear. There was always a fluttering at Janice's heart when she received a letter from her father. She always dreamed of him as a mariner skirting the coasts of Uncertainty. There was no telling, as Aunt 'Mira often said, what was going to happen to Broxton Day next. First of all, on this occasion, the young girl saw that the most important enclosure was the usual fat letter addressed to her in daddy's hand. With it was a thin, oblong card, on which, in minute and very exact script, was written this flowery note: "With respect I, whom you know not, venture to address you humbly, and in view of the situation of your honorable father, the Señor B Day, beg to make known to you that the military authorities now in power in this district have refused him the privilege of sending or receiving mail. Yet, fear not, sweet Señorita; while the undersigned retains the boon of breath and the power of brain and arm, thy letters, if addressed in my care, shall reach none but thy father's eye, and his to thee shall be safely consigned to the government mails beyond the Rio Grande. "Faithfully thine, "JUAN DICAMPA." Who the writer of this peculiar communication was, Janice had no means of knowing. In the letter from her father which she immediately opened, there was no mention of Juan Dicampa. Mr. Day did say, however, that he seemed to have incurred the particular enmity of the Zapatist chief then at the head of the district because he was not prepared to bribe him personally and engage his ragged and barefoot soldiery to work in the mine. He did not say that his own situation was at all changed. Rather, he joked about the half-breeds and the pure-blood Yaquis then in power about the mine. Either Mr. Broxton Day had become careless because of continued peril, or he really considered these Indians less to be feared than the brigands who had previously overrun this part of Chihuahua. However, it was good to hear from daddy and to know that--up to the time the letter was written, at least--he was all right. She went down to supper with some cheerfulness, and took the letter to read aloud, by snatches, during the meal. A letter from Mexico was always an event in the Day household. Marty was openly desirous of emulating "Uncle Brocky" and getting out of Polktown--no matter where or how. Aunt 'Mira was inclined to wonder how the ladies of Mexico dressed and deported themselves. Uncle Jason observed: "I've allus maintained that Broxton Day is a stubborn and foolish feller. Why! see the strain he's been under these years since he went down to that forsaken country. An' what for?" "To make a fortune, Dad," interposed Marty. "Hi tunket! Wisht I was in his shoes." "Money ain't ev'rything," said Uncle Jason, succinctly. "Well, it's a hull lot," proclaimed the son. "I reckon that's so, Jason," Aunt Almira agreed. "It's his money makin' that leaves Janice so comfterble here. And her automobile----" "Oh, shucks! Is money wuth life?" demanded Mr. Day. "What good will money be to him if he's stood up against one o' them dough walls and shot at by a lot of slantindicular-eyed heathen?" "Hoo!" shouted Marty. "The Mexicans ain't slant-eyed like Chinamen and Japs." "And they ain't heathen," added Aunt Almira. "They don't bow down to figgers of wood and stone." "Besides, Uncle," put in Janice, softly, and with a smile, "it is _adobe_ not _dough_ they build their houses of." "Huh!" snorted Uncle Jason. "Don't keer a continental. He's one foolish man. He'd better throw up the whole business, come back here to Polktown, and I'll let him have a piece of the old farm to till." "Oh! that would be lovely, Uncle Jason!" cried Janice, clasping her hands. "If he only _could_ retire to dear Polktown for the rest of his life and we could live together in peace." "Hi tunket!" exclaimed Marty, pushing back his chair from the supper table just as the outer door opened. "He kin have _my_ share of the old farm," for Marty had taken a mighty dislike to farming and had long before this stated his desire to be a civil engineer. "At it ag'in, air ye, Marty?" drawled a voice from the doorway. "If repetition of what ye want makes detarmination, Mart, then you air the most detarmined man since Lot's wife--and she was a woman, er-haw! haw! haw!" "Come in, Walky," said Uncle Jason, greeting the broad and ruddy face of his neighbor with a brisk nod. "Set up and have a bite," was Aunt 'Mira's hospitable addition. "No, no! I had a snack down to the tavern, Marthy's gone to see her folks terday and I didn't 'spect no supper to hum. I'm what ye call a grass-widderer. Haw! haw! haw!" explained the local expressman. Walky's voice seemed louder than usual, his face was more beaming, and he was more prone to laugh at his own jokes. Janice and Marty exchanged glances as the expressman came in and took a chair that creaked under his weight. The girl, remembering what her cousin had said about the visitor, wondered if it were possible that Walky had been drinking and now showed the effects of it. It was true, as Janice had once said--the expressman should have been named "Talkworthy" rather than "Walkworthy" Dexter. To-night he seemed much more talkative than usual. "What were all you younkers out o' school so early for, Marty?" he asked. "Ain't been an eperdemic o' smallpox broke out, has there?" "Teachers' meeting," said Marty. "The Superintendent of Schools came over and they say we're going to have fortnightly lectures on Friday afternoons--mebbe illustrated ones. Crackey! it don't matter what they have," declared this careless boy, "as long as 'tain't lessons." "Lectures?" repeated Walky. "Do tell! What sort of lectures?" "I heard Mr. Haley say the first one would proberbly be illustrated by a collection of rare coins some rich feller's lent the State School Board. He says the coins are worth thousands of dollars." "Lectures on coins?" cackled Walky. "I could give ye a lecture on ev'ry dollar me and Josephus ever airned! Haw! haw! haw!" Walky rolled in his chair in delight at his own wit. Uncle Jason was watching him with some curiosity as he filled and lit his pipe. "Walky," he drawled, "what was the very hardest dollar you ever airned? It strikes me that you allus have picked the softest jobs, arter all." "Me? Soft jobs?" demanded Walkworthy, with some indignation. "Ye oughter try liftin' some o' them drummers' sample-cases that I hatter wrastle with. Wal!" Then his face began to broaden and his eyes to twinkle. "Arter all, it was a soft job that I airned my hardest dollar by, for a fac'." "Let's have it, Walky," urged Marty. "Get it out of your system. You'll feel better for it." "Why, ter tell the truth," grinned Walky, "it was a soft job, for I carried five pounds of feathers in a bolster twelve miles to old Miz' Kittridge one Winter day when I was a boy. I got a dollar for it and come as nigh bein' froze ter death as ever a boy did and save his bacon." "Do tell us about it, Walky," said Janice, who was wiping the supper dishes for her aunt. "I should say it was a soft job--five pounds of feathers!" burst out Marty. "How fur did you haf to travel, Walky?" asked Aunt 'Mira. "Twelve mile over the snow and ice, me without snowshoes and it thirty below zero. Yes, sir!" went on Walky, beginning to stuff the tobacco into his own pipe from Mr. Day's proffered sack. "That was some job! Miz Bob Kittridge, the old lady's darter-in-law, give me the dollar _and_ the job; and I done it. "The old lady lived over behind this here very mountain, all alone on the Kittridge farm. The tracks was jest natcherly blowed over and hid under more snow than ye ever see in a Winter nowadays. I believe there was five foot on a level in the woods. "There'd been a rain; then she'd froze up ag'in," pursued Walky. "It put a crust on the snow, but I had no idee it had made the ice rotten. And with Mr. Mercury creepin' down to thirty below--jefers-pelters! I'd no idee Mink Creek had open air-holes in it. I ain't never understood it to this day. "Wal, sir! ye know where Mink Creek crosses the road to Kittridge's, Jason?" Mr. Day nodded. "I know the place, Walky," he agreed. "That's where it happened," said Walky Dexter, nodding his head many times. "I was crossin' the stream, thinkin' nothin' could happen, and 'twas jest at sunup. I'd come six mile, and was jest ha'f way to the farm. I kerried that piller-case over my shoulder, and slung from the other shoulder was a gun, and I had a hatchet in my belt. "Jefers-pelters! All of a suddint I slumped down, right through the snow-crust, and douced up ter my middle inter the coldest water I ever felt I did, for a fac'! "I sprung out o' that right pert, ye kin believe; and then the next step I went down ker-chug! ag'in--this time up ter my armpits." "Crackey!" exclaimed Marty. "That was some slip. What did you do?" "I got out o' that hole purty careful, now I tell ye; but I left my cap floatin' on the open pool o' water," the expressman said. "Why, I was a cake of ice in two minutes--and six miles from anywhere, whichever way I turned." "Oh, Walky!" ejaculated Janice, interested. "What ever did you do?" "Wal, I had either to keep on or go back. Didn't much matter which. And in them days I hated ter gin up when I'd started a thing. But I had ter git that cap first of all. I couldn't afford ter lose it nohow. And another thing, I'd a froze my ears if I hadn't got it. "So I goes back to the bank of the crick and cut me a pole. Then I fished out the cap, wrung it out as good as I could, and clapped it on my head. Before I'd clumb the crick bank ag'in that cap was as stiff as one o' them tin helmets ye read about them knights wearin' in the middle ages--er-haw! haw! haw! "I had ter laig it then, believe me!" pursued the expressman. "Was cased in ice right from my head ter my heels. Could git erlong jest erbout as graceful as one of these here cigar-store Injuns--er-haw! haw! haw! "I dunno how I made it ter Ma'am Kittridge's--but I done it! The old lady seen the plight I was in, and she made me sit down by the kitchen fire just like I was. Wouldn't let me take off a thing. "She het up some kinder hot tea--like ter burnt all the skin off my tongue and throat, I swow!" pursued Walky. "Must ha' drunk two quarts of it, an' gradually it begun ter thaw me out from the inside. That's how I saved my feet--sure's you air born! "When I come inter her kitchen I clumped in with feet's big as an elephant's an' no more feelin' in them than as though they'd been boxes and not feet. If I'd peeled off that ice and them boots, the feet would ha' come with 'em. But the old lady knowed what ter do, for a fac'. "Hardest dollar ever I airned," repeated Walky, shaking his head, "and jest carryin' a mess of goose feathers---- "Hullo! who's this here comin' aboard?" Janice had run to answer a knock at the side door. Aunt 'Mira came more slowly with the sitting room lamp which she had lighted. "Well, Janice Day! Air ye all deef here?" exclaimed a high and rather querulous voice. "Do come in, Mrs. Scattergood," cried the girl. "I declare, Miz Scattergood," said Aunt 'Mira, with interest, "you here at this time o' night? I am glad to see ye." "Guess ye air some surprised," said the snappy, birdlike old woman whom Janice ushered into the sitting room. "I only got back from Skunk's Holler, where I been visitin', this very day. And what d'ye s'pose I found when I went into Hopewell Drugg's?" "Goodness!" said Aunt 'Mira. "They ain't none o' them sick, be they?" "Sick enough, I guess," exclaimed Mrs. Scattergood, nodding her head vigorously: "Leastways, 'Rill oughter be. I told her so! I was faithful in season, and outer season, warnin' her what would happen if she married that Drugg." "Oh, Mrs. Scattergood! What has happened?" cried Janice, earnestly. "What's happened to Hopewell?" added Aunt 'Mira. "Enough, I should say! He's out carousin' with that fiddle of his'n--down ter Lem Parraday's tavern this very night with some wild gang of fellers, and my 'Rill hum with that child o' his'n. And what d'ye think?" demanded Mrs. Scattergood, still excitedly. "What d'ye think's happened ter that Lottie Drugg?" "Oh, my, Mrs. Scattergood! What _has_ happened to poor little Lottie?" Janice cried. "Why," said 'Rill Drugg's mother, lowering her voice a little and moderating her asperity. "The poor little thing's goin' blind again, I do believe!" CHAPTER III "THE SEVENTH ABOMINATION" Sorrowful as Janice Day was because of the report upon little Lottie Drugg's affliction, she was equally troubled regarding the storekeeper himself. Janice had a deep interest in both Mr. Drugg and 'Rill Scattergood--"that was," to use a provincialism. The girl really felt as though she had helped more than a little to bring the storekeeper and the old-maid school-teacher together after so many years of misunderstanding. It goes without saying that Mrs. Scattergood had given no aid in making the match. Indeed, as could be gathered from what she said now, the birdlike woman had heartily disapproved of her daughter's marrying the widowed storekeeper. "Yes," she repeated; "there I found poor, foolish 'Rill--her own eyes as red as a lizard's--bathing that child's eyes. I never did believe them Boston doctors could cure her. Yeou jest wasted your money, Janice Day, when you put up fer the operation, and I knowed it at the time." "Oh, I hope not, Mrs. Scattergood!" Janice replied. "Not that I care about the money; but I do, _do_ hope that little Lottie will keep her sight. The poor, dear little thing!" "What's the matter with Lottie Drugg?" demanded Marty, from the doorway. Walky Dexter had started homeward, and Marty and Mr. Day joined the women folk in the sitting room. "Oh, Marty!" Janice exclaimed, "Mrs. Scattergood says there is danger of the poor child's losing her sight again." "And that ain't the wust of it," went on Mrs. Scattergood, bridling. "My darter is an unfortunate woman. I knowed how 'twould be when she married that no-account Drugg. He sartainly was one 'drug on the market,' if ever there was one! Always a-dreamin' an' never accomplishin' anything. "Now Lem Parraday's opened that bar of his'n--an' he'd oughter be tarred an' feathered for doin' of it--I 'spect Hopewell will be hangin' about there most of his time like the rest o' the ne'er-do-well male critters of this town, an' a-lettin' of what little business he's got go to pot." "Oh, Miz Scattergood," said Aunt 'Mira comfortably, "I wouldn't give way ter sech forebodin's. Hopewell is rather better than the ordinary run of men, I allow." Uncle Jason chuckled. "It never struck me," he said, "that Hopewell was one o' the carousin' kind. I'd about as soon expec' Mr. Middler to cut up sech didoes as Hope Drugg." Mrs. Scattergood flushed and her eyes snapped. If she was birdlike, she could peck like a bird, and her bill was sharp. "I reckon there ain't none of you men any too good," she said; "minister, an' all of ye. Oh! I know enough about _men_, I sh'd hope! I hearn a lady speak at the Skunk's Holler schoolhouse when I was there at my darter-in-law's last week. She was one o' them suffragettes ye hear about, and she knowed all about men and their doin's. "I wouldn't trust none o' ye farther than I could sling an elephant by his tail! As for Hopewell Drugg--he never was no good, and he never will be wuth ha'f as much again!" "Well, well, well," chuckled Uncle Jason, easily. "How did this here sufferin-yet l'arn so much about the tribes o' men? I 'spect she was a spinster lady?" "She was a Miss Pogannis," was the tart reply. "Ya-as," drawled Mr. Day. "It's them that's never summered and wintered a man that 'pears ter know the most about 'em. Ev'ry old maid in the world knows more about bringin' up children than the wimmen that's had a dozen." "Oh, yeou needn't think she didn't know what she was talkin' abeout!" cried Mrs. Scattergood, tossing her head. "She culled her examples from hist'ry, as well as modern times. Look at Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob! All them men kep' their wimmen in bondage. "D'yeou s'pose Sarah wanted to go trapesing all over the airth, ev'ry time Abraham wanted ter change his habitation?" demanded the argumentative suffragist. "Of course, he always said God told him to move, not the landlord. But, my soul! a man will say anything. "An' see how Jacob treated Rachel----" "Great Scott!" ejaculated Uncle Jason, letting his pipe go out. "I thought Jacob was a fav'rite hero of you wimmen folks. Didn't he sarve--how many was it?--fourteen year, for Rachel?" "Bah!" exclaimed the old lady. "I 'spect she wished he'd sarved fourteen year _more_, when she seen the big family she had to wash and mend for. Don't talk to me! Wimmen's never had their rights in this world yet, but they're goin' to get 'em now." Here Aunt 'Mira broke in to change the topic of conversation to one less perilous: "I never did hear tell that Hopewell Drugg drank a drop. It's a pity if he's took it up so late in life--and him jest married." "Wal! I jest tell ye what I know. There's my 'Rill cryin' her eyes out an' she confessed that Drugg had gone down to the tavern to fiddle, and that he'd been there before. She has to wait on store evenin's, as well as take care of that young one, while he's out carousin'." "Carousin'! Gosh!" exploded Marty, suddenly. "I know what it is. There's a bunch of fellers from Middletown way comin' over to-night with their girls to hold a dance. I heard about it. Hopewell's goin' to play the fiddle for them to dance by. Tell you, the Inn's gettin' to be a gay place." "It's disgustin whatever it is!" cried Mrs. Scattergood, rather taken aback by Marty's information, yet still clinging to her own opinion. It was not Mrs. Scattergood's nature to scatter good--quite the opposite. "An' no married man should attend sech didoes. Like enough he _will_ drink with the rest of 'em. Oh, 'Rill will be sick enough of her job before she's through with it, yeou mark my words." "Oh, Mrs. Scattergood," Janice said pleadingly, "I hope you are wrong. I would not want to see Miss 'Rill unhappy." "She's made her bed--let her lie in it," said the disapproving mother, gloomily. "I warned her." Later, both Janice and Marty went with Mrs. Scattergood to see her safely home. She lived in the half of a tiny cottage on High Street above the side street on which Hopewell Drugg had his store. Had it not been so late, Janice would have insisted upon going around to see "Miss 'Rill," as all her friends still called, the ex-school teacher, though she was married. As they were bidding their caller good night at her gate, a figure coming up the hill staggered into the radiance of the street light on the corner. Janice gasped. Mrs. Scattergood ejaculated: "What did I tell ye?" Marty emitted a shrill whistle of surprise. "What d'ye know about _that_?" he added, in a low voice. There was no mistaking the figure which turned the corner toward Hopewell Drugg's store. It was the proprietor of the store himself, with his fiddle in its green baize bag tightly tucked under his arm; but his feet certainly were unsteady, and his head hung upon his breast. They saw him disappear into the darkness of the side street. Janice Day put her hand to her throat; it seemed to her as though the pulse beating there would choke her. "What did I tell ye? What did I tell ye?" cried the shrill voice of Mrs. Scattergood. "_Now_ ye'll believe what I say, I hope! The disgraceful critter! My poor, poor 'Rill! I knew how 'twould be if she married that man." It chanced that Janice Day's Bible opened that night to the sixth of Proverbs and she read before going to bed these verses: "These six things doth the Lord hate; yea, seven are an abomination unto him. "A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood. "An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief. "A false witness that speaketh lies, _and he that soweth discord among brethren_." CHAPTER IV A RIFT IN THE HONEYMOON Janice could not call at the little grocery on the side street until Friday afternoon when she returned from Middletown for over Sunday. While the roads were so bad that she could not use her car in which to run back and forth to the seminary she boarded during the school days near the seminary. But 'Rill Drugg and little Lottie were continually in her mind. From Walky Dexter, with whom she rode home to Polktown on Friday, she gained some information that she would have been glad not to hear. "Talk abeout the 'woman with the sarpint tongue,'" chuckled Walky. "We sartain sure have our share of she in Polktown." "What is the matter now, Walky?" asked Janice, gaily, not suspecting what was coming. "Has somebody got ahead of you in circulating a particularly juicy bit of gossip?" "Huh!" snorted the expressman. "I gotter take a back seat, _I_ have. Did ye hear 'bout Hopewell Drugg gittin' drunk, an' beatin' his wife, an' I dunno but they say by this time that it's his fault lettle Lottie's goin' blind again----" "Oh, Walky! it can't be true!" gasped the girl, horrified. "What can't? That them old hens is sayin' sech things?" demanded the driver. "That Lottie is truly going blind?" "Dunno. She's in a bad way. Hopewell wants to send her back to Boston as quick's he can. I know that. And them sayin' that he's turned inter a reg'lar old drunk, an' sich." "What do you mean, Walky?" asked Janice, seriously. "You cannot be in earnest. Surely people do not say such dreadful things about Mr. Drugg?" "Fact. They got poor old Hopewell on the dissectin' table, and the way them wimmen cut him up is a caution to cats!" "What women, Walky?" "His blessed mother-in-law, for one. And most of the Ladies Aid is a-follerin' of her example. They air sayin' he's nex' door to a ditch drunkard." "Why, Walky Dexter! nobody would really believe such talk about Mr. Drugg," Janice declared. "Ye wouldn't think so, would ye? We've all knowed Hopewell Drugg for years an' years, and he's allus seemed the mildest-mannered pirate that ever cut off a yard of turkey-red. But now--Jefers-pelters! ye oughter hear 'em! He gits drunk, beats 'Rill Scattergood, _that was_, and otherwise behaves himself like a hardened old villain." "Oh, Walky! I would not believe such things about Mr. Drugg--not if he told them to me himself!" exclaimed Janice. "An' I reckon nobody would ha' dreamed sech things about him if Marm Scattergood hadn't got home from Skunk's Holler. I expect she stirred up things over there abeout as much as her son and his wife'd stand, and they shipped her back to Polktown. And Polktown--includin' Hopewell--will hafter stand it." "It is a shame!" cried Janice, with indignation. Then she added, doubtfully, remembering the unfortunate incident she and Marty and Mrs. Scattergood had viewed so recently: "Of course, there isn't a word of truth in it?" "That Hopewell's become a toper and beats his wife?" chuckled Walky. "Wal--I reckon not! Maybe Hopewell takes a glass now and then--I dunno. I never seen him. But they _do_ say he went home airly from the dance at Lem Parraday's t'other night in a slightly elevated condition. Haw! haw! haw!" "It is nothing to laugh at," Janice said severely. "Nor nothin' ter cry over," promptly returned Walkworthy Dexter. "What's a drink or two? It ain't never hurt _me_. Why should it Hopewell?" "Don't argue with me, Walky Dexter!" Janice exclaimed, much exasperated. "I--I _hate_ it all--this drinking. I never thought of it much before. Polktown has been free of that curse until lately. It is a shame the bar was ever opened at the Lake View Inn. _And something ought to be done about it!_" Walky had pulled in his team for her to jump down before Hopewell Drugg's store. "Jefers-pelters!" murmured the driver, scratching his head. "If that gal detarmines to put Lem Parraday out o' the licker business, mebbe--mebbe I'd better go down an' buy me another drink 'fore she does it. Haw! haw! haw!" Hopewell Drugg's store was a very different looking shop now from its appearance that day when Janice had led little blind Lottie up from the wharf at Pine Cove and delivered her to her father for safe keeping. Then the goods had been dusty and fly-specked, and the interior of the store dark and musty. Now the shelves and showcases were neatly arranged, everything was scrupulously clean, and it was plain that the reign of woman had succeeded the pandemonium of man. There was nobody in the store at the moment; but from the rear the sobbing tones of a violin took up the strains of "Silver Threads Among the Gold." Janice listened. There seemed, to her ear, a sadder strain than ever in Hopewell's playing of the old ballad. For a time this favorite had been discarded for lighter and brighter melodies, for the little family here on the by-street had been wonderfully happy. They all three welcomed Janice Day joyfully now. The storekeeper, much sprucer in dress than heretofore, smiled and nodded to her over the bridge of his violin. His wife, in a pretty print house dress, ran out from her sitting room where she was sewing, to take Janice in her arms. As for little Lottie, she danced about the visitor in glee. "Oh, Janice Day! Oh, Janice Day! Looker me!" she crowed. "See my new dress? Isn't it pretty? And Mamma 'Rill made it for me--all of it! She makes me lots and lots of nice things. Isn't she just the bestest Mamma 'Rill that ever was?" "She certainly is," admitted Janice, laughing and kissing the pretty child. But she looked anxiously into the beautiful blue eyes, too. Nothing there betrayed growing visual trouble. Yet, when Lottie Drugg was stone-blind, the expression of her eyes had been lovely. "Weren't you and your papa lucky to get such a mamma?" continued Janice with a swift glance over her shoulder at Hopewell. The storekeeper was drawing the bow across the strings softly and just a murmur came from them as he listened. His eyes, Janice saw, were fixed in pride and satisfaction upon his wife's trim figure. On her part, Mrs. Drugg seemed her usual brisk, kind self. Yet there was a cheerful note lacking here. The honeymoon for such a loving couple could not yet have waned; but there was a rift in it. 'Rill wanted to talk. Janice could see that. The young girl had been the school teacher's only confidant previous to her marriage to Hopewell Drugg, and she still looked upon Janice as her dearest friend. They left Lottie playing in the back room of the store and listening to her father's fiddle, while 'Rill closed the door between that room and the dwelling. "Oh, my dear!" Janice hastened to ask, first of all, "is it true?" 'Rill flushed and there was a spark in her eye--Janice thought of indignation. Indeed, her voice was rather sharp as she asked: "Is what true?" "About Lottie. Her eyes--you know." "Oh, the poor little thing!" and instantly the step-mother's countenance changed. "Janice, we don't know. Poor Hopewell is 'most worried to death. Sometimes it seems as though there was a blur over the child's eyes. And she has never got over her old habit of shutting her eyes and seeing with her fingers, as she calls it." "Ah! I know," the girl said. "But that does not necessarily mean that she has difficulty with her vision." "That is true. And the doctor in Boston wrote that, at times, there might arise some slight clouding of the vision if she used her eyes too much, if she suffered other physical ills, even if she were frightened or unhappy." "The last two possibilities may certainly be set aside," said Janice, with confidence. "And she is as rosy and healthy looking as she could be." "Yes," said 'Rill. "Then what can it be that has caused the trouble?" "We cannot imagine," with a sigh. "It--it is worrying Hopewell, night and day." "Poor man!" "He--he is changed a great deal, Janice," whispered the bride. Janice was silent, but held 'Rill's hand in her own comforting clasp. "Don't think he isn't good to me. He is! He is! He is the sweetest tempered man that ever lived! You know that, yourself. And I thought I was going to make him--oh!--so happy." "Hush! hush, dear!" murmured Janice, for Mrs. Drugg's eyes had run over and she sobbed aloud. "He loves you just the same. I can see it in the way he looks at you. And why should he not love you?" "But he has lost his cheerfulness. He worries about Lottie, I know. There--there is another thing----" She stopped. She pursued this thread of thought no further. Janice wondered then--and she wondered afterward--if this unexplained anxiety connected Hopewell Drugg with the dances at the Lake View Inn. CHAPTER V "THE BLUEBIRD--FOR HAPPINESS" Could it be possible that Janice Day had alighted from Walky Dexter's old carryall at the little grocery store for still another purpose? It was waning afternoon, yet she did not immediately make her way homeward. Mrs. Beaseley lived almost across the street from Hopewell Drugg's store, and Nelson Haley, the principal of Polktown's graded school, boarded with the widow. Janice ran in to see her "just for a moment." Therefore, it could scarcely be counted strange that the young school principal should have caught the girl in Mrs. Beaseley's bright kitchen when he came home with his satchel of books and papers. "There! I do declare for't!" ejaculated the widow, who was a rather lugubrious woman living in what she believed to be the remembrance of "her sainted Charles." "There! I do declare for't! I git to talkin' and I forgit how the time flies. That's what my poor Charles uster say--he had _that_ fault to find with me, poor soul. I couldn't never seem to git the vittles on the table on time when I was young. "I was mindin' to make you a shortcake for your supper to-night, Mr. Haley, out o' some o' them peaches I canned last Fall! But it's so late----" "You needn't hurry supper on my account, Mrs. Beaseley," said Nelson, cheerily, and without removing his gloves. "I find I've to go downtown again on an errand. I'll not be back for an hour." Janice was smiling merrily at him from the doorway. Mrs. Beaseley began to bustle about. "That'll give me just time to toss up the shortcake," she proclaimed. "Good-bye, Janice. Come again. Mr. Haley'll like to walk along with you, I know." Mrs. Beaseley was blind to what most people, in Polktown knew--that Janice and the schoolteacher were the very closest of friends. Only their years--at least, only Janice's youth--precluded an announced engagement between them. "Wait until I can come home and get a square look at this phenomenal young man whom you have found in Polktown," Daddy had written, and Janice would not dream of going against her father's expressed wish. Besides, Nelson Haley was a poor young man, with his own way to make in the world. His work in the Polktown school had attracted the attention of the faculty of a college not far away, and he had already been invited to join the teaching staff of that institution. Janice had been the young man's inspiration when he had first come to Polktown, a raw college graduate, bent only on "teaching for a living" and on earning his salary as easily as possible. Awakened by his desire to stand well in the estimation of the serious-minded girl--eager to "make good" with her--Nelson Haley had put his shoulder to the wheel, and the result was Polktown's fine new graded school, with the young man himself at the head of it. Nelson was good looking--extremely good looking, indeed. He was light, not dark like Janice, and he was muscular and sturdy without being at all fleshy. The girl was proud of him--he was always so well-dressed, so gentlemanly, and carried himself with such an assured air. Daddy was bound to be pleased with a young man like Nelson Haley, once he should see the schoolteacher! In his companionship now, Janice rather lost sight of the troubles that had come upon her of late. Nelson told her of his school plans as they strolled down High Street. "And I fancy these lectures and readings the School Committee are arranging will be a good thing," the young man said. "We'll slip a little extra information to the boys and girls of Polktown without their suspecting it." "Sugar-coated pills?" laughed Janice. "Yes. The old system of pounding knowledge into the infant cranium isn't in vogue any more." "Poor things!" murmured Janice Day, from the lofty rung of the scholastic ladder she had attained. "Poor things! I don't blame them for wondering: 'What's the use?' Marty wonders now, old as he is. There is such a lot to learn in the world!" They talked of other things, too, and it was the appearance of Jim Narnay weaving a crooked trail across High Street toward the rear of the Inn that brought back to the girl's mind the weight of new trouble that had settled upon it. "Oh, dear! there's that poor creature," murmured Janice. "And I haven't been to see how his family is." "Who--Jim Narnay's family?" asked Nelson. "Yes." "You'd better keep away from such people, Janice," the young man said urgently. "Why?" "You don't want to mix with such folk, my dear," repeated the young man, shaking his head. "What good can it do? The fellow is a drunken rascal and not worth striving to do anything for." "But his family? The poor little children?" said Janice, softly. "If you give them money, Jim'll drink it up." "I believe that," admitted Janice. "So I won't give them money. But I can buy things for them that they need. And the poor little baby is sick. That cunning Sophie told me so." "Goodness, Janice!" laughed Nelson, yet with some small vexation. "I see there's no use in opposing your charitable instincts. But I really wish you would not get acquainted with every rag-tag and bob-tail in town. First those Trimminses--and now these Narnays!" Janice laughed at this. "Why, they can't hurt me, Nelson. And perhaps I might do them good." "You cannot handle charcoal without getting some of the smut on your fingers," Nelson declared, dogmatically. "But they are not charcoal. They are just some of God's unfortunates," added the young girl, gently. "It is not Sophie's fault that her father drinks. And maybe it isn't altogether _his_ fault." "What arrant nonsense!" exclaimed Nelson, with some exasperation. "It always irritates me when I hear these old topers excused. A man should be able to take a glass of wine or beer or spirits--or let it alone." "Yes, indeed, Nelson," agreed Janice, demurely. "He _ought_ to." The young man glanced sharply into her rather serious countenance. He suspected that she was not agreeing with him, after all, very strongly. Finally he laughed, and the spark of mischief immediately danced in Janice Day's hazel eyes. "That is just where the trouble lies, Nelson, with drinking intoxicating things. People should be able to drink or not, as they feel inclined. But alcohol is insidious. Why! you teach that in your own classes, Nelson Haley!" "Got me there," admitted the young school principal, with a laugh. Then he became sober again, and added: "But _I_ can take a drink or leave it alone if I wish." "Oh, Nelson! You _don't_ use alcoholic beverages, do you?" cried Janice, quite shocked. "Oh! you _don't_, do you?" "My, my! See what a little fire-cracker it is!" laughed Nelson. "Did I say I was in the habit of going into Lem Parraday's bar and spending my month's salary in fiery waters?" "Oh, but Nelson! You don't _approve_ of the use of liquor, do you?" "I'm not sure that I do," returned the young man, more gravely. "And yet I believe in every person having perfect freedom in that as well as other matters." "Anarchism!" cried Janice, yet rather seriously, too, although her lips smiled. "I know the taste of all sorts of beverages," the young man said. "I was in with rather a sporty bunch at college, for a while. But I knew I could not afford to keep up that pace, so I cut it out." "Oh, Nelson!" Janice murmured. "It's too bad!" "Why, it never hurt me," answered the young schoolmaster. "It never could hurt me. A gentleman eats temperately and drinks temperately. Of course, I would not go into the Lake View Inn and call for a drink, now that I am teaching school here. My example would be bad for the boys. And I fancy the School Committee would have something to say about it, too," and he laughed again, lightly. They had turned into Hillside Avenue and the way was deserted save for themselves. The warm glow of sunset lingered about them. Lights twinkling in the kitchens as they went along announced the preparation of the evening meal. Janice clasped her hands over Nelson's arm confidingly and looked earnestly up into his face. "Nelson!" she said softly, "don't even _think_ about drinking anything intoxicating. I should be afraid for you. I should worry about the hold it might get upon you----" "As it has on Jim Narnay?" interrupted the young man, laughing. "No," said Janice, still gravely. "You would never be like him, I am sure------" "Nor will drink ever affect me in any way--no fear! I know what I am about. I have a will of my own, I should hope. I can control my appetites and desires. And I should certainly never allow such a foolish habit as tippling to get a strangle hold on me." "Of course, I know you won't," agreed Janice. "I thank goodness I'm not a man of habit, in any case," continued Nelson, proudly. "One of our college professors has said: 'There is only one thing worse than a bad habit--and that's a good habit.' It is true. No man can be a well-rounded and perfectly poised man, if he is hampered by habits of any kind. Habits narrow the mind and contract one's usefulness in the world----" "Oh, Nelson!" excitedly interrupted Janice. "See the bluebird! The first I have seen this Spring. The dear, little, pretty thing!" "Good-_night_!" exploded the school teacher, with a burst of laughter. "My little homily is put out of business. A bluebird, indeed!" "But the bluebird is so pretty--and so welcome in Spring. See! there he goes." Then she added softly, still clinging to Nelson's arm: "'The bluebird--for happiness.'" CHAPTER VI THE TENTACLES OF THE MONSTER The sweet south wind blew that night and helped warm to life the Winter-chilled breast of Mother Earth. Her pulses leaped, rejuvenated; the mellowing soil responded; bud and leaf put forth their effort to reach the sun and air. At Janice Day's casement the odors of the freshly-turned earth and of the growing things whispered of the newly begun season. The ruins of the ancient fortress across the lake to the north still frowned in the mists of night when Janice left her bed and peered from the open window, looking westward. Behind the mountain-top which towered over Polktown it was already broad day; but the sun would not appear, to gild the frowning fortress, or to touch the waters of the lake with its magic wand, for yet several minutes. As the first red rays of the sun graced the rugged prospect across the lake, Janice went through the barnyard and climbed the uphill pasture lane. She was bound for the great "Overlook" rock in the second-growth, from which spot she never tired of looking out upon the landscape--and upon life itself. Janice Day took many of her problems to the Overlook. There, alone with the wild things of the wood, with nothing but the prospect to tempt her thoughts, she was wont to decide those momentous questions that come into every young girl's life. As she sped up the path past the sheep sheds on this morning, her feet were suddenly stayed by a most unexpected incident. Janice usually had the hillside to herself at this hour; but now she saw a dark figure huddled under the shelter, the open side of which faced her. "A bear!" thought Janice. Yet there had not been such a creature seen in the vicinity of Polktown for years, she knew. She hesitated. The "bear" rolled over, stretched himself, and yawned a most prodigious yawn. "Goodness, mercy, me!" murmured Janice Day. "It's a man!" But it was not. It was a boy. Janice popped down behind a boulder and watched, for at first she had no idea who he could be. Certainly he must have been up here in the sheepfold all night; and a person who would spend a night in the open, on the raw hillside at this time of year, must have something the matter with him, to be sure. "Why--why, that's Jack Besmith! He worked for Mr. Massey all Winter. What is he doing here?" murmured Janice. She did not rise and expose herself to the fellow's gaze. For one thing, the ex-drug clerk looked very rough in both dress and person. His uncombed hair was littered with straw and bits of corn-blades from the fodder on which he had lain. His clothing was stained. He wore no linen and the shoes on his feet were broken. Never in her life had Janice Day seen a more desperate looking young fellow and she was actually afraid of him. Yet she knew he came of a respectable family, and that he had a decent lodging in town. What business had he up here at her uncle's sheepfold? Janice continued her walk no farther. She remained in hiding until she saw Jack Besmith stumble out of the sheep pasture and down the hill behind the Day stables--taking a retired route toward the village. Coming down into the barnyard once more, Janice met Marty with a foaming milk pail. "Hullo, early bird!" he sang out. "Did you catch the worm this morning?" Janice shuddered a trifle. "I believe I did, Marty," she confessed. "At least, I saw some such crawling thing." "Hi tunket! Not a snake so early in the year?" "I don't know," and his cousin smiled, yet with gravity. "Huh?" queried the boy, with curiosity, for he saw that something unusual had occurred. Janice gravely told him whom she had seen in the sheepfold. "And, Marty, I believe he must have been up there all night--sleeping outdoors such weather as this. What for, do you suppose?" Marty professed inability to explain; but after he had taken the milk in to his mother, he slipped away and ran up to the sheep pasture himself. "I say, Janice," he said, grinning, when he came back. "I can solve the mystery, I can." "What mystery?" asked his cousin, who was flushed now with helping her aunt get breakfast. "The mystery of the 'early worm' that you saw this mornin'." He brought his hand from behind him and displayed an empty, amber-colored flask on which was a gaudy label announcing its contents to have been whiskey and sold by "_L. Parraday, Polktown._" "Oh, dear! Is _that_ the trouble with the Besmith boy?" murmured Janice. "That's how he came to lose his job with Massey." "Poor fellow! He looked dreadful!" "Oh, he's a bad egg," said her cousin, carelessly. Janice hurried through breakfast, for the car was to be brought forth to-day. Marty had been fussing over it for almost a week. The wind was drying up the roads and it was possible for Janice to take a spin out into the open country. Marty's prospects of enjoying the outing, however, were nipped before he could leave the table. "Throw the chain harness on the colts, Marty," said his father. "The 'tater-patch is dry enough to put the plow in. And I'll want ye to help me." "Oh--Dad! I got to help Janice get her car out. This ain't no time to plow for 'taters," declared Marty. "Your mouth'll be open wider'n anybody else's in the house for the 'taters when they're grown," said Uncle Jason, calmly. "You got to do your share toward raisin' 'em." "Oh, Dad!" ejaculated the boy again. "Now, Marty, you stop talkin'!" cried his mother. "Huh! you wanter make a feller dumb around here, too. S'pose Janice breaks down on the road?" he added, with reviving hope. "I guess she'll find somebody that knows fully as much about them gasoline buggies as you do, Son," observed Uncle Jason, easily. "You an' me'll tackle the 'tater field." When his father spoke so positively Marty knew there was no use trying to change him. He frowned, and muttered, and kicked the table leg as he got up, but to no avail. Janice, later, got into her car and started for a ride. She put the Kremlin right at the hill and it climbed Hillside Avenue with wonderful ease. The engine purred prettily and not a thing went wrong. "Poor Marty! It's too bad he couldn't go, too," she thought. "I'd gladly share this with somebody." Nelson, she knew, was busy this forenoon. It took no little of his out-of-school time to prepare the outline for the ensuing week's work. Besides, on this Saturday morning, there was a special meeting of the School Committee, as he had told her the afternoon before. Something to do with the course of lectures before mentioned. And the young principal of Polktown's graded school was very faithful to his duties. She thought of Mrs. Drugg and little Lottie; but there was trouble at the Drugg home. Somehow, on this bright, sweet-smelling morning, Janice shrank from touching anything unpleasant, or coming into communication with anybody who was not in attune with the day. She was fated, however, to rub elbows with Trouble wherever she went and whatever she did. She ran the Kremlin past the rear of Walky Dexter's place and saw Walky himself currying Josephus and his mate on the stable floor. The man waved his currycomb at her and grinned. But his well-known grimace did not cheer Janice Day. "Dear me! Poor Walky is in danger, too," thought the young girl. "Why! the whole of Polktown is changing. In some form or other that liquor selling at the Inn touches all our lives. I wonder if other people see it as plainly as I do." She ran up into the Upper Middletown Road, as far out as Elder Concannon's. The old gentleman--once Janice Day's very stern critic, but now her staunch friend--was in the yard when Janice approached in her car. He waved a cordial hand at her and turned away from the man he had been talking with. "Well, there ye have it, Trimmins," the girl heard the elder say, as her engine stopped. "If you can find a man or two to help you, I'll let you have a team and you can go in there and haul them logs. There's a market for 'em, and the logs lie jest right for hauling. You and your partner can make a profit, and so can I." Then he said to Janice: "Good morning, child! You're as fresh to look at as a morning-glory." She had nodded and smiled at the patriarchal old gentleman; but her eyes were now on the long and lanky looking woodsman who stood by. "Good day, Mr. Trimmins," she said, when she had returned Elder Concannon's greeting. "Is Mrs. Trimmins well? And my little Virginia and all the rest of them?" "The fambly's right pert, Miss," Trimmins said. Janice had a question or two to ask the elder regarding the use of the church vestry for some exercises by the Girl's Guild of which she had been the founder and was still the leading spirit. "Goodness, yes!" agreed the elder. "Do anything you like, Janice, if you can keep those young ones interested in anything besides dancing and parties. Still, what can ye expect of the young gals when their mothers are given up to folly and dissipation? "There's Mrs. Marvin Petrie and Mrs. Major Price want to be 'patronesses,' I believe they call themselves, of an Assembly Ball, an' want to hold the ball at Lem Parraday's hotel. It's bad enough to have them dances; but to have 'em at a place where liquor is sold, is a sin and a shame! I wish Lem Parraday had lost the hotel entirely, before he got a liquor license." "Oh, Elder! It is dreadful that liquor should be sold in Polktown," Janice said, from the seat of the automobile. "I'm just beginning to see it." "That's what it is," said the elder, sturdily. "It's a shame Mr. Parraday was ever allowed to have a license at the Lake View Inn." "Wal--it does seem too bad," the elder agreed, but with less confidence in his tone. "I know they say the Inn scarcely paid him and his wife, and he might have had to give it up this Spring," Janice said. "Ahem! That would have been unfortunate for the mortgagee," slowly observed the old man. "Mr. Cross Moore?" Janice quickly rejoined. "Well! he could afford to lose a little money if anybody could." "Tut, tut!" exclaimed the elder, who had a vast respect for money. "Don't say that, child. Nobody can afford to lose money." Janice turned her car about soberly. She saw that the ramification of this liquor selling business was far-reaching, indeed. Elder Concannon spoke only too truly. Where self-interest was concerned most people would lean toward the side of liquor selling. "The tentacles of the monster have insinuated themselves into our social and business life, as well as into our homes," she thought. "Why--why, what can _I_ do about it? Just _me_, a girl all alone." CHAPTER VII SWEPT ON BY THE CURRENT Janice picked up Trimmins on the road to town. The lanky Southerner, who lived as a squatter with his ever-increasing family back in the woods, was a soft-spoken man with much innate politeness and a great distaste for regular work. He said the elder had just offered him a job in the woods that he was going to take if he could get a man to help him. "I heard you talking about it, Mr. Trimmins," the young girl said, with her eyes on the road ahead and her foot on the gas pedal. "I hope you will make a good thing out of it." "Not likely. The elder's too close for that," responded the man, with a twinkle in his eye. "Yes. I suppose that Elder Concannon considers a small profit sufficient. He got his money that way--by 'littles and dribbles'--and I fancy he thinks small pay is all right." "My glo-_ree_! You bet he does!" said Trimmins. "But the elder never had but one--leastways, two--chillen to raise. He wouldn't ha' got rich very fast with _my_ family--no, sir!" "Perhaps that is so," Janice admitted. "Tell ye what, Miss," the woodsman went on to say, "a man ought to git paid accordin' to the mouths there is to home to feed. I was readin' in a paper t'other day that it took ten dollars a week to take proper care of a man and his wife, and there ought to be added to them ten dollars two dollars a week ev'ry time they got a baby." "Why! wouldn't that be fine?" cried Janice, laughing. "It sure would be a help," said Trimmins, the twinkle in his eye again. "I reckon both me an' Narnay would 'preciate it." "Oh! you mean Jim Narnay?" asked Janice, with sudden solemnity. "Yes ma'am. I'm goin' to see him now. He's a grand feller with the axe and I want him to help me." Janice wondered how much work would really be done by the two men if they were up in the woods together. Yet Mrs. Narnay and the children might get along better without Jim. Janice had made some inquiries and learned that Mrs. Narnay was an industrious woman, working steadily over her washtub, and keeping the children in comparative comfort when Jim was not at home to drink up a good share of her earnings. "Are you going down to the cove to see Narnay now, Mr. Trimmins?" Janice asked, as she turned the automobile into the head of High Street. "Yes, ma'am. That is, if I don't find him at Lem Parraday's." "Oh, Mr. Trimmins!" exclaimed Janice, earnestly. "Look for him at the house first. And don't you go near Lem Parraday's, either." "Wal!" drawled the man. "I s'pose you air right, Miss." "I'll drive you right down to the cove," Janice said. "I want to see little Sophie, and--and her mother." "Whatever you say, Miss," agreed the woodsman. They followed a rather rough street coveward, but arrived safely at the small collection of cottages, in one of which the Narnays lived. Jim Narnay was evidently without money, for he sat on the front stoop, sober and rather neater than Janice was used to seeing him. He was whittling a toy of some kind for the little boys, both of whom were hanging upon him. Their attitude, as well as what Sophie Narnay had told her, assured Janice that the husband and father of the household was not a cruel man when he was sober. The children still loved him, and he evidently loved them. "Got a job, Jim?" asked Trimmins, after thanking Janice for the ride, and getting out of the automobile. "Not a smitch of work since I come out of the woods," admitted the bewhiskered man, rising quickly from the stoop to make way for Janice. "Come on, old feller," said Trimmins. "I want to talk to you. If you are favorable inclined, I reckon I got jest the job you've been lookin' for." The two went off behind the cottage. Janice did not know then that there was a short cut to High Street and the Lake View Inn. Sophie came running to the door to welcome the visitor, her thin little arms red and soapy from dish-water. "I knowed 'twas you," she said, smiling happily. "They told me you was the only girl in town that owned one o' them cars. And I told mom that you must be awful rich and kind. Course, you must be, or you couldn't afford to give away ten cent pieces so easy." Mrs. Narnay came to the door, too, her arms right out of the washtub; but Janice begged her not to inconvenience herself. "Keep right on with your work and I'll come around to the back and sit on that stoop," said the young girl. "And you must see the baby," Sophie urged. "I can bring out the baby if I wrap her up good, can't I, Marm?" "Have a care with the poor child, Sophie," said Mrs. Narnay, wearily. "Where's your pop gone?" "He's walked out with Mr. Trimmins," said the little girl. The woman sighed, and Janice, all through her visit, could see that she was anxious about her absent husband. The baby was brought out--a pitifully thin, but pretty child--and Sophie nursed her little sister with much enjoyment. "I wisht she was twins," confessed the little girl. "It must be awful jolly to have twins in the family." "My soul, child!" groaned Mrs. Narnay. "Don't talk so reckless. One baby at a time is affliction enough--as ye'll find out for yourself some day." Janice, leaving a little gift to be hidden from Jim Narnay and divided among the children, went away finally, with the determination that Dr. Poole should see the baby again and try to do something for the poor, little, weakly thing. Trimmins and Jim Narnay had disappeared, and Janice feared that, after all, they had drifted over to the Inn, there to celebrate the discovery of the job they both professed to need so badly. "That awful bar!" Janice told herself. "If it were not here in Polktown those two ne'er-do-wells would have gone right about their work without any celebration at all. I guess Mrs. Scattergood is right--Mr. Lem Parraday ought to be tarred and feathered for ever taking out that license! And how about the councilmen who voted to let him have it?" As she wheeled into High Street once more a tall, well groomed young man, with rosy cheeks and the bluest of blue eyes, hailed her from the sidewalk. "Oh, Janice Day!" he cried. "How's the going?" "Mr. Bowman! I didn't know you had returned," Janice said, smiling and stopping the car. "The going is pretty good." "Have you been around by the Lower Road where my gang is working?" "No," Janice replied. "But Marty says the turnout is being put in and that the bridge over the creek is almost done." "Good! I'll get over there by and by to see for myself." He had set down a heavy suitcase and still held a traveling bag. "Just now," he added, "I am hunting a lodging." "Hunting a lodging? Why! I thought you were a fixture with Marm Parraday," Janice said. "I thought so, too. But it's got too strong for me down there. Besides, it is a rule of the Railroad Company that we shall find board, if possible, where no liquor is sold. I had a room over the bar and it is too noisy for me at night." "Marm Parraday will be sorry to lose you, Mr. Bowman," Janice said. "Isn't it dreadful that they should have taken up the selling of liquor there?" "Bad thing," the young civil engineer replied, promptly. "I'm sorry for Marm Parraday. Lem ought to be kicked for ever getting the license," he added vigorously. "Dear me, Mr. Bowman," sighed Janice. "I wish everybody thought as you do. Polktown needs reforming." "What! Again?" cried the young man, laughing suddenly. Then he added: "I expect, if that is so, you will have to start the reform, Miss Janice. And--and you'd better start it with your friend, Hopewell Drugg. Really, they are making a fool of him around the Inn--and he doesn't even know it." "Oh, Mr. Bowman! what do you mean?" called Janice after him; but the young man had picked up his bag and was marching away, so that he did not hear her question. Before she could start her engine he had turned into a side street. She ran back up Hillside Avenue in good season for dinner. The potato patch was plowed and Marty had gone downtown on an errand. Janice backed the car into the garage and went upstairs to her room to change her dress for dinner. She was there when Marty came boisterously into the kitchen. "My goodness! what's the matter with you, Marty Day?" asked his mother shrilly. "What's happened?" "It's Nelson Haley," the boy said, and Janice heard him plainly, for the door at the foot of the stairs was ajar. "It's awful! They are going to arrest him!" "What do you mean, Marty Day? Be you crazy?" Mrs. Day demanded. "What's this? One o' your cheap jokes?" asked the boy's father, who chanced to be in the kitchen, too. "Guess Nelson Haley don't think it's a joke," said the boy, his voice still shaking. "I just heard all about it. There ain't many folks know it yet----" "Stop that!" cried his mother. "You tell us plain what Mr. Haley's done." "Ain't done nothin', of course. But they _say_ he has," Marty stoutly maintained. "Then what do they accuse him of?" queried Mr. Day. "They accuse him of stealin'! Hi tunket! ain't that the meanest thing ye ever heard?" cried the boy. "Nelson Haley, stealin'. It gets _me_ for fair!" "Why--why I can't believe it!" Aunt 'Mira gasped, and she sat down with a thud on one of the kitchen chairs. "I got it straight," Marty went on to say. "The School Committee's all in a row over it. Ye see, they had the coins----" "_Who_ had _what_ coins?" cried his mother. "The School Committee. That collection of gold coins some rich feller lent the State Board of Education for exhibition at the lecture next Friday. They only come over from Middletown last night and Mr. Massey locked them in his safe." "Wal!" murmured Uncle Jason. "Massey brought 'em to the school this morning where the committee held a meeting. I hear the committee left the trays of coins in their room while they went downstairs to see something the matter with the heater. When they come up the trays had been skinned clean--'for a fac'!" exclaimed the excited Marty. "What's that got to do with Mr. Haley?" demanded Uncle Jason, grimly. "Why--he'd been in the room. I believe he don't deny he was there. Nobody else was in the buildin' 'cept the janitor, and he was with Massey and the others in the basement. "Then coins jest disappeared--took wings and flewed away," declared Marty with much earnestness. "What was they wuth?" asked his father, practically. "Dunno. A lot of money. Some says two thousand and some says five thousand. Whichever it is, they'll put him under big bail if they arrest him." "Why, they wouldn't dare!" gasped Mrs. Day. "Say! Massey and them others has got to save their own hides, ain't they?" demanded the suspicious Marty. "Wal. 'Tain't common sense that any of the School Committee should have stolen the coins," Uncle Jason said slowly. "Mr. Massey, and Cross Moore, and Mr. Middler----" "Mr. Middler warn't there," said Marty, quickly. "He'd gone to Middletown." "Joe Pellet and Crawford there?" asked Uncle Jason. "All the committee but the parson," his son admitted. "And all good men," Uncle Jason said reflectively. "Schoolhouse locked?" "So they say," Marty declared. "That's what set them on Nelson. Only him and the janitor carry keys to the building." "Who's the janitor?" asked Uncle Jason. "Benny Thread. You know, the little crooked-backed feller--lives on Paige Street. And, anyway, there wasn't a chance for him to get at the coins. He was with the committee all the time they was out of the room." "And are they sure Mr. Haley was in there?" asked Aunt 'Mira. "He admits it," Marty said gloomily. "I don't know what's going to come of it all----" "Hush!" said Uncle Jason suddenly. "Shut that door." But it was too late, Janice had heard all. She came down into the kitchen, pale-faced and with eyes that blazed with indignation. She had not removed her hat. "Come, Uncle Jason," she said, brokenly. "I want you to go downtown with me. If Nelson is in trouble we must help him." "Drat that boy!" growled Uncle Jason, scowling at Marty. "He's a reg'lar big mouth! He has to tell ev'rything he knows all over the shop." CHAPTER VIII REAL TROUBLE It seemed to Janice Day as though the drift of trouble, which had set her way with the announcement by her father of his unfortunate situation among the Yaqui Indians, had now risen to an overwhelming height. 'Rill's secret misgivings regarding Hopewell Drugg, little Lottie's peril of blindness, the general tendency of Polktown as a whole to suffer the bad effects of liquor selling at the tavern--all these things had added to Janice's anxiety. Now, on the crest of the threatening wave, rode this happening to Nelson Haley, an account of which Marty had brought home. "Come, Uncle Jason," she said again to Mr. Day. "You must come with me. If Nelson is arrested and taken before Justice Little, the justice will listen to _you_. You are a property owner. If they put Nelson under bail----" "Hold your hosses," interrupted Uncle Jason, yet not unkindly. "Noah didn't build the ark in a day. We'd best go slow about this." "Slow!" repeated Janice. "I guess you wouldn't talk about bein' slow, Jason Day, if _you_ was arrested," Aunt 'Mira interjected. "Ma's right," said Marty. "Mebbe they'll put him in the cell under the Town Hall 'fore you kin get downtown." "There ain't no sech haste as all that," stated Uncle Jason. "What's the matter of you folks?" He spoke rather testily, and Janice looked at him in surprise. "Why, Uncle!" she cried, "what do you mean? It's Nelson Haley who is in trouble." "I mean to eat my dinner fust of all," said her uncle firmly. "And so had you better, my gal. A man can't be expected to go right away to court an' put up every dollar he's got in the world for bail, until he's thought it over a little, and knows something more about the trouble." "Why, Jason!" exploded Aunt 'Mira. "Of course Mr. Haley is innocent and you will help him." "Hi tunket, Dad!" cried Marty. "You ain't goin' back on Nelson?" Janice was silent. Her uncle did not look at her, but drew his chair to the table. "I ain't goin' back on nobody," he said steadily. "But I can't do nothing to harm my own folks. If, as you say, Marty, them coins is so vallible, his bail'll be consider'ble--for a fac'. If I put up this here property that we got, an'--an' anything happens--not that I say anythin' will happen--where'd we be?" "What ever do ye mean, Jason Day?" demanded his wife. "That Nelson Haley would run away?" "Ahem! We don't know how strongly the young man's been tempted," said Mr. Day doggedly. "Uncle!" cried Janice, aghast. "Dad!" exclaimed Marty. "Jase Day! For the land's sake!" concluded Aunt 'Mira. "Sit down and eat your dinner, Janice," said Uncle Jason a second time, ignoring his wife and son. "Remember, I got a duty to perform to your father as well as to you. What would Broxton Day do in this case?" "I--I don't know, Uncle Jason," Janice said faintly. "Fust of all, he wouldn't let you git mixed up in nothin' that would make the neighbors talk about ye," Mr. Day said promptly. "Now, whether Nelson Haley is innercent or guilty, there is bound ter be slathers of talk about this thing and about ev'rybody connected with it." "He is not guilty, Uncle," said Janice, quietly. "That's my opinion, too," said Mr. Day, bluntly. "But I want the pertic'lars, jest the same. I want to know all about it. Where there's so much smoke there must be some fire." "Not allus, Dad," growled Marty, in disgust. "Smoke comes from an oak-ball, but there ain't no fire." "You air a smart young man," returned his father, coolly. "You'll grow up to be the town smartie, like Walky Dexter, I shouldn't wonder. Nelson must ha' done somethin' to put himself in bad in this thing, and I want to know what it is he done." "He went into the schoolhouse," grumbled Marty. "Howsomever," pursued Mr. Day, "if they shut Nelson Haley up on this charge and he ain't guilty, we who know him best will git together and bail him out, if that seems best." "'If that seems best!'" repeated Aunt 'Mira. "Jason Day! I'm glad the Lord didn't make me such a moderate critter as you be." "You're a great friend of Nelse Haley--I don't think!" muttered Marty. But Janice said nothing more. That Uncle Jason did not rush to Nelson's relief as she would have done had it been in her power, was not so strange. Janice was a singularly just girl. The hurt was there, nevertheless. She could not help feeling keenly the fact that everybody in Polktown did not respond at once to Nelson's need. That he should be accused of stealing the collection of coins was preposterous indeed. Yet Janice was sensible enough to know that there would be those in the village only too ready and willing to believe ill of the young schoolmaster. Nelson Haley's character was not wishy-washy. He had made everybody respect him. His position as principal of the school gave him almost as much importance in the community as the minister. But not all the Polktown folk loved Nelson Haley. He had made enemies as well as friends since coming to the lakeside town. There were those who would seize upon this incident, no matter how slightly the evidence might point to Nelson, and make "a mountain of a molehill." Nelson was a poor young man. He had come to Polktown with college debts to pay off out of his salary. To those who were not intimately acquainted with the school-teacher's character, it would not seem such an impossibility that he should yield to temptation where money was concerned. But to Janice the thought was not only abhorrent, it was ridiculous. She would have believed herself capable of stealing quite as soon as she would have believed the accusation against Nelson. Yet she could not blame Uncle Jason for his calm attitude in this event. It was his nature to be moderate and careful. She did not scold like Aunt 'Mira, nor mutter and glare like Marty. She could not, however, eat any dinner. It was nerve-racking to sit there, playing with her fork, awaiting Uncle Jason's pleasure. Janice's eyes were tearless. She had learned ere this, in the school of hard usage, to control her emotions. Not many girls of her age could have set off finally with Mr. Day for the town with so quiet a mien. For she insisted upon accompanying her uncle on this quest. She felt that she could not remain quietly at home and wait upon his leisurely report of the situation. First of all they learned that no attempt had been made as yet to curtail the young schoolmaster's liberty; otherwise the situation was quite as bad as Marty had so eagerly reported. The collection of gold coins, valued at fifteen hundred dollars, had been left in the committee room next to the principal's office in the new school building. It being Saturday, the outer doors of the building were locked--or supposedly so. Benny Thread, the janitor, was with the four committeemen in the basement for a little more than half an hour. During that half-hour Nelson Haley had entered the school building, using his pass key, had been to his office, and entered the committee room, and from thence departed, all while the committee was below stairs. He had been seen both going in and coming out by the neighbors. He carried his school bag in both instances. The collection of coins was of some weight; but Nelson could have carried that weight easily. The committee, upon returning to the second floor and finding the trays empty, had at once sent for Nelson and questioned him. In their first excitement over the loss of the coins, they had been unwise enough to state the trouble and their suspicions to more than one person. In an hour the story, with many additions, had spread over Polktown. A fire before a high wind could have traveled no faster. Uncle Jason listened, digested, and made up his mind. Although a moderate man, he thought to some purpose. He was soon satisfied that the four committeemen, having got over their first fright, would do nothing rash. And Janice had much to thank her uncle for in this emergency; for he was outspoken, once having formed an opinion in the matter. Finding the four committeemen in the drugstore, Uncle Jason berated them soundly: "I did think you four fellers was safe to be let toddle about alone. I swan I did! But here ye ac' jest like ye was nuthin' but babies! "Jest because ye acted silly and left that money open for the fust comer to pocket, ye hafter run about an' squeal, layin' it all to the fust person that come that way. If Mr. Middler or Elder Concannon had come inter that school buildin', I s'pose it'd ha' been jest the same. You fellers would aimed ter put it on them--one or t'other. I'm ashamed of ye." "Wal, Jase Day, you're so smart," drawled Cross Moore, "who d'ye reckon could ha' took the coins?" "Most anybody _could_. Mr. Haley sartinly did _not_," Uncle Jason returned, briskly. "How d'ye know so much?" demanded Massey, the druggist. "'Cause I know him," rejoined Mr. Day, quite as promptly as before. "Aw--that's only talk," said Joe Pellet, pulling his beard reflectively. "Mr. Haley's a nice young man----" "I've knowed him since ever he come inter this town," Mr. Day interrupted, with energy. "He's too smart ter do sech a thing, even if he was so inclined. You fellers seem ter think he's an idiot. What! steal them coins when he's the only person 'cept the janitor that's knowed to have a key to the school building? "Huh!" pursued Uncle Jason, with vast disgust. "You fellers must have a high opinion of your own judgment, when you choosed Mr. Haley to teach this school. Did ye hire a nincompoop, I wanter know? Why! if he'd wanted ever so much ter steal them coins, he'd hafter been a fule ter done it in this way." "There's sense in what ye say, Jason," admitted Mr. Crawford. "I sh'd hope so! But there ain't sense in what you fellers have done--for a fac! Lettin' sech a story as this git all over town. By jiminy! if I was Mr. Haley, I'd sue ye!" "But what are we goin' ter do, Jason?" demanded Cross Moore. "Sit here an' twiddle our thumbs, and let that feller 't owns the coins come down on us for their value?" "You'll have to make good to him anyway," said Mr. Day, bluntly. "You four air responserble." "Hi tunket!" exploded Joe Pellet. "And let the thief git away with 'em?" "Better git a detecertif, an' put him on the case," said Mr. Day. "Of course, you air all satisfied that nobody could ha' got into the schoolhouse but Mr. Haley?" "He an' Benny is all that has keys," said Massey. "Sure about this here janitor?" asked Uncle Jason, slowly. "Why, he was with us all the time," said Crawford, in disgust. "And he's a hardworkin' little feller, too," Massey added. "Not a thing wrong with Benny but his back. That is crooked; but he's as straight as a string." "How's his fambly?" asked Uncle Jason. "Ain't got none--but a wife. A decent, hard-working woman," proclaimed the druggist. "No children. Her brother boards with 'em. That's all." "Well, sir!" said Uncle Jason, oracularly. "There air some things in this worl' ye kin be sure of, besides death and taxes. There's a few things connected with this case that ye kin pin down. F'r instance: The janitor didn't do it. Nelse Haley didn't do it. None o' you four fellers done it." "Say! you goin' to drag us under suspicion, Jase?" drawled Cross Moore. "If you keep on sputterin' about Nelse Haley--yes," snapped Mr. Day, nodding vigorously. "Howsomever, there's still another party ter which the finger of suspicion p'ints." "Who's that?" was the chorus from the school committee. "A party often heard of in similar cases," said Mr. Day, solemnly. "His name is _Unknown_! Yes, sir! Some party unknown entered that building while you fellers was down cellar, same as Nelson Haley did. This party, Unknown, stole the coins." "Aw, shucks, Jase!" grunted Mr. Cross Moore. "You got to give us something more satisfactory than that if you want to shunt us off'n Nelson Haley's trail," and the other three members of the School Committee nodded. CHAPTER IX HOW NELSON TOOK IT Something more than mere curiosity drew Janice Day's footsteps toward the new school building. There were other people drawn in the same direction; but their interest was not like hers. Somehow, this newest bit of gossip in Polktown could be better discussed at the scene of the strange robbery itself. Icivilly Sprague and Mabel Woods walked there, arm in arm, passing Janice by with side glances and the tossing of heads. Icivilly and Mabel had attended Nelson's school the first term after Miss 'Rill Scattergood gave up teaching; but finding the young schoolmaster impervious to their charms, they had declared themselves graduated. They were not alone among the older girls who found Nelson provokingly adamant. He did not flirt. Of late it had become quite apparent that the schoolmaster had eyes only for Janice Day. Of course, that fact did not gain Nelson friends among girls like Icivilly and Mabel in this time of trial. Janice knew that they were whispering about her as she passed; but her real thought was given to more important matters. Uncle Jason had told her just how the affair of the robbery stood. There was a mystery--a deep, deep mystery about it. In the group about the front gate of the school premises were Jim Narnay and Trimmins, the woodsmen. Both had been drinking and were rather hilarious and talkative. At least, Trimmins was so. "Wish _we'd_ knowed there was all that cash so free and open up here in the schoolhouse--heh, Jim?" Trimmins said, smiting his brother toper between the shoulders. "We wouldn't be diggin' out for no swamp to haul logs." "You're mighty right, Trimmins! You're mighty right!" agreed the drunken Narnay. "Gotter leave m' fambly--hate ter do it!" and he became very lachrymose. "Ter'ble thing, Trimmins, f'r a man ter be sep'rated from his fambly jest so's ter airn his livin'." "Right ye air, old feller," agreed the Southerner. "Hullo! here's the buddy we're waitin' for. How long d'ye s'pose he'll last, loggin?" Janice saw the ex-drug clerk, Jack Besmith, mounting the hill with a pack on his back. Rough as the two lumbermen were, Besmith looked the more dissolute character, despite his youth. The trio went away together, bound evidently for one of Elder Concannon's pieces of woodland, over the mountain. Benny Thread came out of the school building and locked the door importantly behind him. Several of the curious ones surrounded the little man and tried to get him into conversation upon the subject of the robbery. "No, I can't talk," he said, shaking his head. "I can't, really. The gentlemen of the School Committee have forbidden me. Why--only think! It was more by good luck than good management that I wasn't placed in a position where I could be suspected of the robbery. Lucky I was with the committeemen every moment of the time they were down cellar. No, I am not suspected, thanks be! But I must not talk--I must not talk." It was evident that he wanted to talk and he could be over-urged to talk if the right pressure was brought to bear. Janice came away, leaving the eagerly curious pecking at him--the one white blackbird in the flock. Uncle Jason had given her some blunt words of encouragement. Janice felt that she must see Nelson personally and cheer him up, if that were possible. At least, she must tell him how she--and, indeed, all his friends--had every confidence in him. Some people whom she met as she went up High Street looked at her curiously. Janice held her head at a prouder angle and marched up the hill toward Mrs. Beaseley's. She ignored these curious glances. But there was no escaping Mrs. Scattergood. That lover of gossip must have been sitting behind her blind, peering down High Street, and waiting for Janice's appearance. She hurried out of the house, beckoning to the girl eagerly. Janice could not very well refuse to approach, so she walked on up the hill beyond the side street on which Mrs. Beaseley's cottage stood, and met the birdlike little woman at her gate. "For the good land's sake, Janice Day!" exploded Mrs. Scattergood. "I was wonderin' if you'd never git up here. Surely, you've heard abeout this drefful thing, ain't you?" Janice knew there was no use in evasion with Mrs. Scattergood. She boldly confessed. "Yes, Mrs. Scattergood, I have heard about it. And I think Mr. Cross Moore and those others ought to be ashamed of themselves--letting people think for a moment that Mr. Haley took those coins." "Who _did_ take 'em?" asked the woman, eagerly. "Have they found out?" "Why, nobody but the person who really is the thief knows who stole the coins; but of course everybody who knows Nelson at all, is sure that it was not Mr. Haley." "Wal--they gotter lay it to somebody," Mrs. Scattergood said, rather doubtfully. "That's the best them useless men could do," she added, with that birdlike toss of the head that was so familiar to Janice. "If there'd been a woman around, they'd laid it on to her. Oh! I know 'em all--the hull kit an' bilin' of 'em." Janice tried to smile at this; but the woman's beadlike eyes seemed to be boring with their glance right through the girl and this made her extremely uncomfortable. "I expect you feel pretty bad, Janice Day," went on Mrs. Scattergood. "But it's allus the way. You'll find as you grow older that there ain't much in this world for females, young or old, but trouble." "Why, Mrs. Scattergood!" cried the girl, and this time she did call up a merry look. "What have you to trouble you? You have the nicest time of any person I know--unless it is Mrs. Marvin Petrie. No family to trouble you; enough to live on comfortably; nothing to do but go visiting--or stay at home if you'd rather----" "Tut, tut, tut, child! All is not gold that glitters," was the quick reply. "I ain't so happy as ye may think. I have my troubles. But, thanks be! they ain't abeout men. But you've begun yours, I kin see." "Yes, I am troubled because Mr. Haley is falsely accused," admitted Janice, stoutly. "Wal--yes. I expect you air. And if it ain't no worse than you believe--Wal! I said you was a new-fashioned gal when I fust set eyes on you that day comin' up from the Landing in the old _Constance Colfax_; and you be." "How am I different from other girls?" asked Janice, curiously. "Wal! Most gals would wait till they was sure the young man wasn't goin' to be arrested before they ran right off to see him. But mebbe it's because you ain't got your own mother and father to tell ye diff'rent." Janice flushed deeply at this and her eyes sparkled. "I am sure Aunt 'Mira and Uncle Jason would have told me not to call on Nelson if they did not believe just as I do--that he is guiltless and that all his friends should show him at once that they believe in him." "Hoity-toity! Mebbe so," said the woman, tartly. "Them Days never did have right good sense--yer uncle an' aunt, I mean. When _I_ was a gal we wouldn't have been allowed to have so much freedom where the young fellers was consarned." Janice was quite used to Mrs. Scattergood's sharp tongue; but it was hard to bear her strictures on this occasion. "I hope it is not wrong for me to show my friend that I trust and believe in him," she said firmly, and nodding good-bye, turned abruptly away. Of herself, or of what the neighbors thought of her conduct, Janice Day thought but little. She went on to Mrs. Beaseley's cottage, solely anxious on Nelson's account. She found the widow in tears, for selfishly immured as Mrs. Beaseley was in her ten-year-old grief over the loss of her "sainted Charles," she was a dear, soft-hearted woman and had come to look upon Nelson Haley almost as her son. "Oh, Janice Day! what ever are we going to do for him?" was her greeting, the moment the girl entered the kitchen. "If my poor, dear Charles were alive I know he would be furiously angry with Mr. Cross Moore and those other men. Oh! I cannot bear to think of how angry he would be, for Charles had a very stern temper. "And Mr. Haley is such a pleasant young man. As I tell 'em all, a nicer and quieter person never lived in any lone female's house. And to think of their saying such dreadful things about him! I am sure _I_ never thought of locking anything away from Mr. Haley in this house--and there's the 'leven sterling silver teaspoons that belonged to poor, dear Charles' mother, and the gold-lined sugar-basin that was my Aunt Abby's, and the sugar tongs--although they're bent some. "Why! Mr. Haley is jest one of the nicest young gentlemen that ever was. And here he comes home, pale as death, and won't eat no dinner. Janice, think of it! I allus have said, and I stick to it, that if one can eat they'll be all right. My sainted Charles," she added, stating for the thousandth time an uncontrovertible fact, "would be alive to this day if he had continued to eat his victuals!" "I'd like to speak to Mr. Haley," Janice said, finally "getting a word in edgewise." "Of course. Maybe he'll let you in," said the widow. "He won't me, but I think he favors you, Janice," she added innocently, shaking her head with a continued mournful air. "He come right in and said: 'Mother Beaseley, I don't believe I can eat any dinner to-day,' and then shut and locked his door. I didn't know what had happened till 'Rene Hopper, she that works for Mrs. Cross Moore, run in to borry my heavy flat-iron, an' she tol' me about the stolen money. Ain't it _awful_?" "I--I hope Nelson will let me speak to him, Mrs. Beaseley," stammered Janice, finding it very difficult now to keep her tears back. "You go right along the hall and knock at his door," whispered Mrs. Beaseley, hoarsely. "An' you tell him I've got his dinner down on the stove-hearth, 'twixt plates, a-keepin' it hot for him." Janice did as she was bidden as far as knocking at the door of the front room was concerned. There was no answer at first--not a sound from within. She rapped a second time. "I am sorry, Mrs. Beaseley; I could not possibly eat any dinner to-day," Nelson's voice finally replied. There was no tremor in the tone of it. Janice knew just how proud the young man was, and no matter how bitterly he was hurt by this trouble that had fallen upon him, he would not easily reveal his feelings. She put her lips close to the crack of the door. "Nelson!" she whispered. "Nelson!" a little louder. She heard him spring to his feet and overturn the chair in which he had been sitting. "Nelson! it's only me," Janice quavered, the pulse beating painfully in her throat. "Let me in--do!" He came across the room slowly. She heard him fumble at the key and knob. Then the door opened. "Oh, Nelson!" she repeated, when she saw him in the darkened parlor. The pallor of his face went to her heart. His hair was disheveled; his eyes red from weeping. After all, he was just a big boy in trouble, and with no mother to comfort him. All the maternal instincts of Janice Day's nature went out to the young fellow. "Nelson! Nelson!" she cried, under her breath. "You poor, poor boy! I'm so sorry for you." "Janice--you----" He stammered, and could not finish the phrase. She cried, emphatically: "Of course I believe in you, Nelson. We _all_ do! You must not take it so to heart. You will not bear it all alone, Nelson. Every friend you have in Polktown will help you." She had come close to him, her hands fluttering upon his breast and her eyes, sparkling with teardrops, raised to his face. "Oh, Janice!" he groaned, and swept her into his arms. CHAPTER X HOW POLKTOWN TOOK IT That was a very serious Saturday night at the old Day house, as well as at the Beaseley cottage. Aunt 'Mira had whispered to Janice before the girl had set forth with her uncle in the afternoon: "Bring him home to supper with ye, child--the poor young man! We got to cheer him up, betwixt us. I'm goin' to have raised biscuits and honey. He does dote on light bread." But Nelson would not come. Janice had succeeded in encouraging him to a degree; but the young schoolmaster was too seriously wounded, both in his self-respect and at heart, to wish to mingle on this evening with any of his fellow-townsmen--even those who were his declared friends and supporters. "Don't look for me at church to-morrow, either, Janice," the young man said. "It may seem cowardly; but I cannot face all these people and ignore this disgrace." "It is _not_ disgrace, Nelson!" Janice cried hotly. "It is, my dear girl. One does not have to be guilty to be disgraced by such an accusation. I may be a coward; I don't know. At least, I feel it too keenly to march into church to-morrow and know that everybody is whispering about me. Why, Janice, I might break down and make a complete fool of myself." "Oh, no, Nelson!" "I might. Even the children will know all about it and will stare at me. I have to face them on Monday morning, and by that time I may have recovered sufficient self-possession to ignore their glances and whispers." And with that decision Janice was obliged to leave him. "The poor, foolish boy!" Aunt 'Mira said. "Don't he know we all air sufferin' with him?" But Uncle Jason seemed better to appreciate the schoolmaster's attitude. "I don't blame him none. He's jest like a dog with a hurt paw--wants ter crawl inter his kennel and lick his wounds. It's a tough propersition, for a fac'." "He needn't be afraid that the fellers will guy him," growled Marty. "If they do, I'll lick 'em!" "Oh, Marty! All of them?" cried Janice, laughing at his vehemence, yet tearful, too. "Well--all I _can_," declared her cousin. "And there ain't many I can't, you bet." "If you was as fond of work as ye be of fightin', Marty," returned Mr. Day, drily, "you sartin sure'd be a wonderful feller." "Ya-as," drawled his son but in a very low tone, "maw says I'm growin' more'n more like you, every day." "Marty," Janice put in quickly, before the bickering could go any further, "did you see little Lottie? It was so late when I came out of Mrs. Beaseley's, I ran right home." "I seed her," her cousin said gloomily. "How air her poor eyes?" asked Aunt 'Mira. "They're not poor eyes. They're as good as anybody's eyes," Marty cried, with exasperation. "Wal--they say she's' goin' blind again," said tactless Aunt 'Mira. "I say she ain't! She ain't!" ejaculated Marty. "All foolishness. I don't believe a thing them doctors say. She's got just as nice eyes as anybody'd want." "That is true, Marty," Janice said soothingly; but she sighed. The door was open, for the evening was mild. On the damp Spring breeze the sound of a husky voice was wafted up the street and into the old Day house. "Hello!" grunted Uncle Jason, "who's this singin' bird a-comin' up the hill? Tain't never Walky a-singin' like that, is it?" "It's Walky; but it ain't him singin'," chuckled Marty. "Huh?" queried Uncle Jason. "It's Lem Parraday's whiskey that's doin' the singin'," explained the boy. "Hi tunket! Listen to that ditty, will ye?" "'I wish't I was a rock A-settin' on a hill, A-doin' nothin' all day long But jest a-settin' still,'" roared Walky, who was letting the patient Josephus take his own gait up Hillside Avenue. "For the Good Land o' Goshen!" cried Aunt 'Mira. "What's the matter o' that feller? Has he taken leave of his senses, a-makin' of the night higeous in that-a-way? Who ever told Walky Dexter 't he could sing?" "It's what he's been drinking that's doing the singing, I tell ye," said her son. "Poor Walky!" sighed Janice. The expressman's complaint of his hard lot continued to rise in song: "'I wouldn't eat, I wouldn't sleep, I wouldn't even wash; I'd jest set still a thousand years, And rest myself, b'gosh!'" "Whoa, Josephus!" He had pulled the willing Josephus (willing at all times to stop) into the open gateway of the old Day place. Marty went out on the porch to hail him. "'I wish I was a bump A-settin' on a log, Baitin' m' hook with a flannel shirt For to ketch a frog! "And when I'd ketched m' frog, I'd rescue of m' bait-- An' what a mess of frog's hind laigs I _wouldn't_ have ter ate!'" "Come on in, Walky, and rest your voice." "You be gittin' to be a smart young chap, Marty," proclaimed Walky, coming slowly up the steps with a package for Mrs. Day and his book to be signed. The odor of spirits was wafted before him. Walky's face was as round and red as an August full moon. "How-do, Janice," he said. "What d'yeou think of them fule committeemen startin' this yarn abeout Nelson Haley?" "What do folks say about it, Walky?" cut in Mr. Day, to save his niece the trouble of answering. "Jest erbeout what you'd think they would," the philosophical expressman said, shaking his head. "Them that's got venom under their tongues, must spit it aout if they open their lips at all. Polktown's jest erbeout divided--the gossips in one camp and the kindly talkin' people in t'other. One crowd says Mr. Haley would steal candy from a blind baby, an' t'other says his overcoat fits him so tight across't the shoulders 'cause his wings is sproutin'. Haw! haw! haw!" "And what d' ye say, Mr. Dexter?" asked Aunt 'Mira, bluntly. The expressman puckered his lips into a curious expression. "I tell ye what," he said. "Knowin' Mr. Haley as I do, I'm right sure he's innercent as the babe unborn. But, jefers-pelters! who _could_ ha' done it?" "Why, Walky!" gasped Janice. "I know. It sounds awful, don't it?" said the expressman. "I don't whisper a word of this to other folks. But considerin' that the schoolhouse doors was locked and Mr. Haley had the only other key besides the janitor, who air Massey and them others goin' to blame for the robbery?" "They air detarmined to save their own hides if possible," Uncle Jason grumbled. "Natcherly--natcherly," returned Walky. "We know well enough none o' them four men of the School Committee took the coins, nor Benny Thread, neither. They kin all swear alibi for each other and sartain sure they didn't all conspire ter steal the money and split it up 'twixt 'em. Haw! haw! haw! 'Twouldn't hardly been wuth dividin' into five parts," he added, his red face all of a grin. "That sounds horrid, Mr. Dexter," said Aunt 'Mira. "Wal, it's practical sense," the expressman said, wagging his head. "It's a problem for one o' them smart detecatifs ye read abeout in the magazines--one o' them like they have in stories. I read abeout one of 'em in a story. Yeou leave him smell the puffumery on a gal's handkerchief and he'll tell right away whether she was a blonde or a brunette, an' what size glove she wore! Haw! haw! haw! "This ain't no laughing matter, Walky," Mr. Day said, with a side glance at Janice. "Better laff than cry," declared Walky. "Howsomever, folks seed Mr. Haley go into the schoolhouse and come out ag'in----" "He told the committee he had been there," Janice interrupted. "That's right, too. Mebbe not so many folks would ha' knowed they'd seen him there if he hadn't up and said so. Proberbly there was ha'f a dozen other folks hangin' abeout the schoolhouse, too, at jest the time the coin collection was stole; but they ain't remembered 'cause they didn't up and tell on themselves." "Oh, Walky!" gasped the girl, startled by the suggestion. "Wal," drawled the expressman, in continuation, "that ain't no good to us, for nobody had a key to the door but him and Benny Thread." "I wonder----" murmured Janice; but said no more. "It's a scanderlous thing," Walky pursued, receiving his book back and preparing to join Josephus at the gate. "Goin' ter split things wide open in Polktown, I reckon. 'Twill be wuss'n a church row 'fore it finishes. Already there's them that says we'd oughter have another teacher in Mr. Haley's place." "Oh, my!" cried Aunt 'Mira. "Ain't willin' ter give the young feller a chance't at all, heh?" said Mr. Day, puffing hard at his pipe. "Wall! we'll see abeout _that_." "We'd never have a better teacher, I tell 'em," Walky flung back over his shoulder. "But Mr. Haley's drawin' a good salary and there's them that think it oughter go ter somebody that belongs here in Polktown, not to an outsider like him." "Hi tunket!" cried Marty, after Walky had gone. "There ye have it. Miss Pearly Breeze, that used ter substi-_toot_ for 'Rill Scattergood, has wanted the school ever since Mr. Haley come. She'd do fine tryin' to be principal of a graded school--I don't think!" "Oh, don't talk so, I beg of you," Janice said. "Of course Nelson won't lose his school. If he did, under these circumstances, he could never go to Millhampton College to teach. Why! perhaps his career as a teacher would be irrevocably ruined." "Now, don't ye take on so, Janice," cried Aunt 'Mira, with her arm about the girl. "It won't be like that. It _can't_ be so bad--can it, Jason?" "We mustn't let it go that fur," declared her spouse, fully aroused now. "Consarn Walky Dexter, anyway! I guess, as Marty says, what he puts in his mouth talks as well as sings for him. "I snum!" added the farmer, shaking his head. "I dunno which is the biggest nuisance, an ill-natered gossip or a good-natered one. Walky claims ter feel friendly to Mr. Haley, and then comes here with all the unfriendly gossip he kin fetch. Huh! I ain't got a mite o' use fer sech folks." Uncle Jason was up, pacing the kitchen back and forth in his stocking feet. He was much stirred over Janice's grief. Aunt 'Mira was in tears, too. Marty went out on the porch, ostensibly for a pail of fresh water, but really to cover his emotion. None of them could comfortably bear the sight of Janice's tears. As Marty started the pump a boy ran into the yard and up the steps. "Hullo, Jimmy Gallagher, what you want?" demanded Marty. "I'm after Janice Day. Got a note for her," said the urchin. "Hey, Janice!" called her cousin; but the young girl was already out on the porch. "What is it, Jimmy? Has Nelson----" "Here's a note from Miz' Drugg. Said for me to give it to ye," said the boy, as he clattered down the steps again. CHAPTER XI "MEN MUST WORK WHILE WOMEN MUST WEEP" Janice brought the letter indoors to read by the light of the kitchen lamp. Her heart fluttered, for she feared that it was something about Nelson. The Drugg domicile was almost across the street from the Beaseley cottage and the girl did not know but that 'Rill had been delegated to tell her something of moment about the young schoolmaster. Marty, too, was eagerly curious. "Hey, Janice! what's the matter?" he whispered, at her shoulder. "Mr. Drugg has to be away this evening and she is afraid to stay in the house and store alone. She wants me to come over and spend the night with her. May I, Auntie?" "Of course, child--go if you like," Aunt 'Mira said briskly. "You've been before." Twice Mr. Drugg had been away buying goods and Janice had spent the night with 'Rill and little Lottie. "Though what protection I could be to them if a burglar broke in, I'm sure I don't know," Janice had said, laughingly, on a former occasion. She went upstairs to pack her handbag rather gravely. She was glad to go to the Drugg place to remain through the night. She would be near Nelson Haley! Somehow, she felt that being across the street from the schoolmaster would be a comfort. When she came downstairs Marty had his hat and coat on. "I'll go across town with ye--and carry the bag," he proposed. "Going to the reading room, anyway." "That's nice of you, Marty," she said, trying to speak in her usual cheery manner. Janice was rather glad it was a moonless evening as she walked side by side with her cousin down Hillside Avenue. It was one of the first warm evenings of the Spring and the neighbors were on their porches, or gossiping at the gates and boundary fences. What about? Ah! too well did Janice Day know the general subject of conversation this night in Polktown. "Come on, Janice," grumbled Marty. "Don't let any of those old cats stop you. They've all got their claws sharpened up." "Hush, Marty!" she begged, yet feeling a warm thrill at her heart because of the boy's loyalty. "There's that old Benny Thread!" exploded Marty, as they came out on the High Street. "Oh! he's as important now as a Billy-goat on an ash-heap. You'd think, to hear him, that he'd stole the coins himself--only he didn't have no chance't. He and Jack Besmith wouldn't ha' done a thing to that bunch of money--no, indeed!--if they'd got hold of it." "Why, Marty!" put in Janice; "you shouldn't say that." Then, with sudden curiosity, she added: "What has that drug clerk got to do with the janitor of the school building?" "He's Benny's brother-in-law. But Jack's left town, I hear." "He's gone with Trimmins and Narnay into the woods," Janice said thoughtfully. "So _he's_ out of it," grumbled Marty. "Jack went up to Massey's the other night to try to get his old job back, and Massey turned him out of the store. Told him his breath smothered the smell of iodoform in the back shop," and Marty giggled. "That's how Jack come to get a pint and wander up into our sheep fold to sleep it off." "Oh, dear, Marty," sighed Janice, "this drinking in Polktown is getting to be a dreadful thing. See how Walky Dexter was to-night." "Yep." "Everything that's gone wrong lately is the fault of Lem Parraday's bar." "Huh! I wonder?" questioned Marty. "Guess Nelse Haley won't lay _his_ trouble to liquor drinking." "No? I wonder----" "Here's the library building, Janice," interrupted the boy. "Want me to go any further with you?" "No, dear," she said, taking the bag from him. "Tell Aunt 'Mira I'll be home in the morning in time enough to dress for church." "Aw-right." "And, Marty!" "Yep?" returned he, turning back. "I see there's a light in the basement of the library building. What's going on?" "We fellers are holding a meeting," said Marty, importantly. "I called it this afternoon. I don't mind telling you, Janice, that we're going to pass resolutions backing up Mr. Haley--pass him a vote of confidence. That's what they do in lodges and other societies. And if any of the fellers renege tonight on this, I'll--I'll--Well, I'll show 'em somethin'!" finished Marty, very red in the face and threatening as he dived down the basement steps. "Oh, well," thought Janice, encouraged after all. "Nelson has some loyal friends." She came to the store on the side street without further incident. She looked across timidly at Nelson's windows. A lamp burned dimly there, so she knew he was at home. Indeed, where would he go--to whom turn in his trouble? Aside from an old maiden aunt who had lent him enough of her savings to enable him to finish his college course, Nelson had no relatives alive. He had no close friend, either young or old, but herself, Janice knew. "Oh, if daddy were only home from Mexico!" was her unspoken thought, as she lifted the latch of the store door. There were no customers at this hour; but it was Hopewell Drugg's custom to keep the store open until nine o'clock every evening, and Saturday night until a much later hour. Every neighborhood store must do this to keep trade. "I'm so glad to see you, Janice," 'Rill proclaimed, without coming from behind the counter. "You'll stay?" "Surely. Don't you see my bag?" returned Janice gaily. "Is Mr. Drugg going to be away all night?" "He--he could not be sure. It's another dance," 'Rill said, rather apologetically. "He feels he must play when he can. Every five dollars counts, you know, and Hopewell is sure that Lottie will have to go back to the school." "Where is the dance?" asked Janice gravely. "Down at the Inn?" "Yes," replied the wife, quite as seriously, and dropping her gaze. "Oh! I hear my Janice! I hear my Janice Day!" cried Lottie's sweet, shrill voice from the rear apartment and she came running out into the store to meet the visitor. "Have a care! have a care, dear!" warned 'Rill. "Look where you run." Janice, seeing more clearly from where she stood in front of the counter, was aware that the child ran toward her with her hands outstretched, and with her eyes tightly closed--just as she used to do before her eyes were treated and she had been to the famous Boston physician. "Oh, Lottie dear!" she exclaimed, taking the little one into her arms. "You will run into something. You will hurt yourself. Why don't you look where you are going?" "I _do_ look," Lottie responded pouting. Then she wriggled all her ten fingers before Janice's face. "Don't you see my lookers? I can see--oh! so nicely!--with my fingers. You know I always could, Janice Day." 'Rill shook her head and sighed. It was plain the bride was a very lenient stepmother indeed--perhaps too lenient. She loved Hopewell Drugg's child so dearly that she could not bear to correct her. Lottie had always had her own way with her father; and matters had not changed, Janice could see. "Mamma 'Rill," Lottie coaxed, patting her step-mother's pink cheek, "you'll let me sit up longer, 'cause Janice is here--won't you?" Of course 'Rill could not refuse her. So the child sat there, blinking at the store lights like a little owl, until finally she sank down in the old cushioned armchair behind the stove and fell fast asleep. Occasionally customers came in; but between whiles Janice and the storekeeper's wife could talk. The racking "clump, clump, clump," of a big-footed farm horse sounded without and a woman's nasal voice called a sharp: "Whoa! Whoa, there! Now, Emmy, you git aout and hitch him to that there post. Ain't no ring to it? Wal! I don't see what Hope Drugg's thinkin' of--havin' no rings to his hitchin' posts. He ain't had none to that one long's I kin remember." "Here comes Mrs. Si Leggett," said 'Rill to Janice. "She's a particular woman and I am sorry Hopewell isn't here himself. Usually she comes in the afternoon. She is late with her Saturday's shopping this time." "Take this basket of eggs--easy, now, Emmy!" shrilled the woman's voice. "Handle 'em careful--handle 'em like they _was_ eggs!" A heavy step, and a lighter step, on the porch, and then the store door opened. The woman was tall and raw-boned. She wore a sunbonnet of fine green and white stripes. Emmy was a lanky child of fourteen or so, with slack, flaxen hair and a perfectly colorless face. "Haow-do, Miz' Drugg," said the newcomer, putting a large basket of eggs carefully on the counter. "What's Hopewell givin' for eggs to-day?" "Just what everybody else is, Mrs. Leggett. Twenty-two cents. That's the market price." "Wal--seems ter me I was hearin' that Mr. Sprague daowntown was a-givin' twenty-three," said the customer slowly. "Perhaps he is, Mrs. Leggett. But Mr. Drugg cannot afford to give even a penny above the market price. Of course, either cash or trade--just as you please." "Wal, I want some things an' I wasn't kalkerlatin' to go 'way daowntown ter-night--it's so late," said Mrs. Leggett. 'Rill smiled and waited. "Twenty-two's the best you kin do?" queried the lanky woman querulously. "That is the market price." "Wal! lemme see some cheap gingham. It don't matter abeout the pattern. It's only for Emmy here, and it don't matter what 'tis that covers her bones' long's it does cover 'em. Will this fade?" "I don't think so," Mrs. Drugg said, opening the bolt of goods so that the customer could get at it better. Janice watched, much amused. The woman pulled at the piece one way, and then another, wetting it meantime and rubbing it with her fingers to ascertain if the colors were fast. She was apparently unable to satisfy herself regarding it. Finally she produced a small pair of scissors and snipped off a tiny piece and handed it to Emmy. "Here, Emmy," she said, "you spit aout that there gum an' chew on this here awhile ter see if it fades any." Janice dodged behind the post to hide the expression of amusement that she could not control. She wondered how 'Rill could remain so placid and unruffled. Emmy took the piece of goods, clapped it into her mouth with the most serious expression imaginable, and went to work. Her mother said: "Ye might's well count the eggs, Miz' Drugg. I make 'em eight dozen and ten. I waited late for the rest of the critters ter lay; but they done fooled me ter-day--for a fac'!" Emmy having chewed on the gingham to her mother's complete satisfaction, Mrs. Leggett finished making her purchases and they departed. Then 'Rill and her guest could talk again. Naturally the conversation almost at the beginning turned upon Nelson Haley's trouble. "It is terrible!" 'Rill said. "Mr. Moore and those others never could have thought what they were doing when they accused Mr. Haley of stealing." "They were afraid that they would have to make good for the coins, and felt that they must blame somebody," Janice replied with a sigh. "Of course, Hopewell went right over to tell the schoolmaster what he thought about it as soon as the story reached us. Hopewell thinks highly of the young man, you know." "Until this thing happened, I thought almost everybody thought highly of him," said Janice, with a sob. "Oh, my dear!" cried 'Rill, tearful herself, "there is such gossip in Polktown. So many people are ready to make ill-natured and untruthful remarks about one----" Janice knew to what secret trouble the storekeeper's wife referred. "I know!" she exclaimed, wiping away her own tears. "They have talked horridly about Mr. Drugg." "It is untruthful! It is unfair!" exclaimed Hopewell Drugg's wife, her cheeks and eyes suddenly ablaze with indignation. To tell the truth, she was like an angry kitten, and had the matter not been so serious, Janice must have laughed at her. "They have told all over town that Hopewell came home intoxicated from that last dance," continued the wife. "But it is a story--a wicked, wicked story!" Janice was silent. She remembered what she and Marty and Mrs. Scattergood had seen on the evening in question--how Hopewell Drugg had looked as he staggered past the street lamp on the corner on his way home with the fiddle under his arm. She looked away from 'Rill and waited. Janice feared that the poor little bride would discover the expression of her doubt in her eyes. CHAPTER XII AN UNEXPECTED EMERGENCY 'Rill seemed to understand what was in Janice's mind and heart. She kept on with strained vehemence: "I know what they all say! And my mother is as bad as any of them. They say Hopewell was intoxicated. He was sick, and the bartender mixed him something to settle his stomach. I think maybe he put some liquor in it unbeknown to Hopewell. Or something! "The poor, dear man was ill all night, Janice, and he never did remember how he got home from the dance. Whatever he drank seemed to befuddle his brain just as soon as he came out into the night air. That should prove that he's not a drinking man." "I--I am sorry for you, dear," Janice said softly. "And I am sorry anybody saw Mr. Drugg that evening on his way home." "Oh, I know you saw him, Janice--and Marty Day and my mother. Mother can be as mean as mean can be! She has never liked Hopewell, as you know." "Yes, I know," admitted Janice. "She keeps throwing such things up to me. And her tongue is never still. It is true Hopewell's father was a drinking man." "Indeed?" said Janice, curiously. "Yes," sighed 'Rill Drugg. "He was rather shiftless. Perhaps it is the nature of artists so to be," she added reflectively. "For he was really a fine musician. Had Hopewell had a chance he might have been his equal. I often think so," said the storekeeper's bride proudly. "I know that the elder Mr. Drugg taught the violin." "Yes. And he used to travel about over the country, giving lessons and playing in orchestras. That used to make Mrs. Drugg awfully angry. She wanted him to be a storekeeper. She made Hopewell be one. How she ever came to marry such a man as Hopewell's father, I do not see." "She must have loved him," said Janice wistfully. "Of course!" cried the bride, quite as innocently. "She couldn't have married him otherwise." "And was Hopewell their only child?" "Yes. He seldom saw his father, but he fairly worshiped him. His father was a handsome man--and he used to play his violin for Hopewell. It was this very instrument my husband prizes so greatly now. When Mr. Drugg died the violin was hid away for years in the garret. "You've heard how Hopewell found it, and strung it himself, and used to play on it slyly, and so taught himself to be a fiddler, before his mother had any idea he knew one note from another. She was extremely deaf at the last and could not hear him playing at odd times, up in the attic." "My!" said Janice, "he must have really loved music." "It was his only comfort," said the wife softly. "When he was twenty-one what little property his father had left came to him. But his mother did not put the violin into the inventory; so Hopewell said: 'Give me the fiddle and you can have the rest.'" "He loved it so!" murmured Janice appreciatively: "Yes. I guess that was almost the only time in his life that Hopewell really asserted himself. With his mother, at least. She was a very stubborn woman, and very stern; more so than my own mother. But Mrs. Drugg had to give in to him about the violin, for she needed Hopewell to run the store for her. They had little other means. "But she made him marry 'Cinda Stone," added 'Rill. "Poor 'Cinda! she was never happy. Not that Hopewell did not treat her well. You know, Janice, he is the sweetest-tempered man that ever lived. "And that is what hurts me more than anything else," sobbed the bride, dabbling her eyes with her handkerchief. "When they say Hopewell gets intoxicated, and is cruel to me and to Lottie, it seems as though--as though I could scratch their eyes out!" For a moment Hopewell's wife looked so spiteful, and her eyes snapped so, that Janice wanted to laugh. Of course, she did not do so. But to see the mild and sweet-tempered 'Rill display such venom was amusing. The store door opened with a bang. The girl and the woman both started up, Lottie remaining asleep. "Hush! Never mind!" whispered Janice to 'Rill. "I'll wait on the customer." When she went out into the front of the store, she saw that the figure which had entered was in a glistening slicker. It had begun to rain. "Why, Frank Bowman! Is it you?" she asked, in surprise. "Oh! how-do, Janice! I didn't expect to find you here." "Nor I you. What are you doing away up here on the hill?" Janice asked. Frank Bowman did not look himself. The girl could not make out what the trouble with him was, and she was puzzled. "I guess you forgot I told you I was moving," he said hesitatingly. "Oh, I remember! And you've moved up into this neighborhood?" "Not exactly. I am going to lodge with the Threads, but I shall continue to eat Marm Parraday's cooking." "The Threads?" murmured Janice. "You know. The little, crooked-backed man. He's janitor of the school. His wife has two rooms I can have. Her brother has been staying with them; but he's lost his job and has gone up into the woods. It's a quiet place--and that's what I want. I can't stand the racket at the hotel any longer," concluded the civil engineer. But Janice thought he still looked strange and spoke differently from usual. His glance wandered about the store as he talked. "What did you want to buy, Frank?" she asked. "I'm keeping store to-night." She knew that 'Rill would not want the young man to see her tears. "Oh--ah--yes," Bowman stammered. "What did I want?" At that Janice laughed outright. She thought highly of the young civil engineer, and she considered herself a close enough friend to ask, bluntly: "What ever is the matter with you, Frank Bowman? You're acting ridiculously." He came nearer to her and whispered: "Where's Mrs. Drugg?" Janice motioned behind her, and her face paled. What had happened? "I--I declare I don't know how to tell her," murmured the young man, his hand actually trembling. "Tell her what?" gasped Janice. "Or even that I ought to tell her," added Frank Bowman, shaking his head. Janice seized him by the lapel of his coat and tried to shake him. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?" she demanded. "What is the matter, Janice?" called 'Rill's low voice from the back. "Never mind! I can attend to _this_ customer," Janice answered gaily. "It's Frank Bowman." Then she turned swiftly to the civil engineer again and whispered: "What is it about? Hopewell?" "Yes," he returned in the same low tone. "What is the matter with him?" demanded the girl greatly worried. "He's down at the Inn----" "I know. He went there to play at a dance tonight. That's why I am here--to keep his wife company," explained Janice. "Well," said Bowman. "I went down to get some of my books I'd left there. They're having a high old time in that big back room, downstairs. You know?" "Where they are going to have the Assembly Ball?" "Yes," he agreed. "But it's nothing more than a dance, is it?" whispered Janice. "Hopewell was hired to play----" "I know. But such playing you never heard in all your life," said Bowman, with disgust. "And the racket! I wonder somebody doesn't complain to Judge Little or to the Town Council." "Not with Mr. Cross Moore holding a mortgage on the hotel," said Janice, with more bitterness than she usually displayed. "You're right there," Bowman agreed gloomily. "But what about Hopewell?" "I believe they have given him something to drink. That Joe Bodley, the barkeeper, is up to any trick. If Hopewell keeps on he will utterly disgrace himself, and----" Janice clung to his arm tightly, interrupting his words with a little cry of pity. "And it will fairly break his wife's heart!" she said. CHAPTER XIII INTO THE LION'S DEN Janice Day was growing up. What really ages one in this life? Emotions. Fear--sorrow--love--hate--sympathy--jealousy--all the primal passions wear one out and make one old. This young girl of late had suffered from too much emotion. Nelson Haley's trouble; her father's possible peril in Mexico; the many in whom she was interested being so affected by the sale of liquor in Polktown--all these things combined to make Janice feel a burden of responsibility that should not have rested upon the shoulders of so young a girl. "Frank," she whispered to Bowman, there in the front of the dusky store, "Frank, what shall we do?" "What can we do?" he asked quite blankly. "He--he should be brought home." "My goodness!" Bowman stammered. "Do you suppose Mrs. Drugg would go down there after him?" "She mustn't," Janice hastened to reply, with decision; "but I will." "Not you, Janice!" Bowman exclaimed, recoiling at the thought. "Do you suppose I'd let you tell Mrs. Drugg?" demanded the girl, fiercely, yet under her breath. "He's her husband." "And I'm her friend." Bowman looked admiringly at the flushed face of the girl. "You are fine, Janice," he said. "But you're too fine to go into that place down there and get Drugg out of it. If you think it is your duty to go for the man, I'll go with you. And I'll go in after him." "Oh, Mr. Bowman! If you would!" "Oh, I will. I only wish we had your car. He may be unable to walk and then the neighbors will talk." "It's got beyond worrying about what the neighbors say," said Janice wearily. "Now, wait. I must go and excuse myself to Mrs. Drugg. She must not suspect. Maybe it isn't as bad as you think and we'll get Hopewell home all right." The storekeeper's wife had carried Lottie back to the sitting room. The child was still asleep and 'Rill was undressing her. "What is the matter, Janice?" she asked curiously. "Has Mr. Bowman gone? What did he want?" "He didn't want to buy anything. He wanted to see me. I--I am going out with him a little while, Miss 'Rill." The latter nodded her head knowingly. "I know," she said. "You are going across the street. I am glad Mr. Bowman feels an interest in Mr. Haley's affairs." "Yes!" gasped Janice, feeling that she was perilously near an untruth, for she was allowing 'Rill to deceive herself. "Will you put the window lamps out before you go, dear?" the storekeeper's wife said. "Certainly," Janice answered, and proceeded to do so before putting on her coat and hat. "Don't be long," 'Rill observed softly. "It's after eleven now." Janice came and kissed her--oh, so tenderly! They stood above the sleeping child. 'Rill had eyes only for the half naked, plump limbs and body of the little girl, or she might have seen something in Janice's tearful glance to make her suspicious. Janice thought of a certain famous picture of the "Madonna and Child" as she tiptoed softly from the room, looking back as she went 'Rill yearned over the little one as only a childless and loving woman does. Perhaps 'Rill had married Hopewell Drugg as much for the sake of being able to mother little Lottie as for any other reason. Yet, what a shock that tender, loving heart was about to receive--what a blow! Janice shrank from the thought of being one of those to bring this hovering trouble home to the trusting wife. Could she not escape it? There was her handbag on the end of the counter. She was tempted to seize it, run out of the store, and make her way homeward as fast as possible. She could leave Frank Bowman to settle the matter with his own conscience. He had brought the knowledge of this trouble to the little store on the side street. Let him solve the problem as best he might. Then Janice gave the civil engineer a swift glance, and her heart failed her. She could not leave that unhappy looking specimen of helplessness to his own devices. Frank's pompadour was ruffled, his eyes were staring, and his whole countenance was a troubled mask. In that moment Janice Day realized for the first time the main duty of the female in this world. That is, she is here to pull the incompetent male out of his difficulties! She thought of Nelson, thoughtful and sensible as he was, actually appalled by his situation in the community. And here was Frank Bowman, a very efficient engineer, unable to engineer this small matter of getting Hopewell Drugg home from the dance, without her assistance. "Oh, dear me! what would the world be without us women?" thought Janice--and gave up all idea of running away and leaving Frank to bungle the situation. The two went out of the store together and closed the door softly behind them. Janice could not help glancing across at the lighted front windows of Mrs. Beaseley's cottage. "There's trouble over yonder," said young Bowman gently. "I went in to see him after supper. He said you'd been there to help him buck up, Janice. Really, you're a wonderful girl." "I'm sorry," sighed Janice. "What?" cried Frank. "Yes. I am sorry if I am wonderful. If I were not considered so, then not so many unpleasant duties would fall my way." Frank laughed at that. "I guess you're right," he said. "Those that seem to be able to bear the burdens of life certainly have them to bear. But poor Nelson needs somebody to hold up his hands, as it were. He's up against it for fair, Janice." "Oh! I can't believe that the committee will continue this persecution, when they come to think it over," the girl cried. "It doesn't matter whether they do or not, I fear," Bowman said, with conviction. "The harm is done. He's been accused." "Oh, dear me! I know it," groaned Janice. "And unless he is proved innocent, Nelson Haley is bound to have trouble here in Polktown." "Do you believe so, Frank?" "I hate to say it. But we--his friends--might as well face the fact first as last," said the civil engineer, sheltering Janice beneath the umbrella he carried. It was misting heavily and she was glad of this shelter. "Oh, I hope they will find the real thief very quickly!" "So do I. But I see nothing being done toward that. The committee seems satisfied to accuse Nelson--and let it go at that." "It is too, too bad!" "They are following the line of least resistance. The real thief is, of course, well away--out of Polktown, and probably in some big city where the coins can be disposed of to the best advantage." "Do you really believe so?" cried the girl. "I do. The thief was some tramp or traveling character who got into the schoolhouse by stealth. That is the only sensible explanation of the mystery." "Do you really believe so?" repeated Janice. "Yes. Think of it yourself. The committee and Benny Thread are not guilty. Nelson is not guilty. Only two keys to the building and those both accounted for. "Some time--perhaps on Friday afternoon or early evening--this tramp I speak of crept into the cellar when the basement door of the schoolhouse was open, with the intention of sleeping beside the furnace. In the morning he slips upstairs and hides from the janitor and keeps in hiding when the four committeemen appear. "He sees the trays of coins," continued Frank Bowman, waxing enthusiastic with his own story, "and while the committeemen are downstairs, and before Nelson comes in, he takes the coins." "Why _before_ Nelson entered?" asked Janice sharply. "Because Nelson tells me that he did not see the trays on the table in the committee room when he looked in there. The thief had removed them, and then put the trays back. Had Nelson seen them he would have stopped to examine the coins, at least. You see, they were brought over from Middletown and delivered to Massey, who kept them in his safe all night. Nelson never laid eyes on them." "I see! I see!" murmured Janice. "So this fellow stole the coins and slipped out of the building with them. They may even be melted down and sold for old gold by this time; although that would scarcely be possible. At any rate, the committee will have to satisfy the owner of the collection. That is sure." "And that is going to make them all just as mad as they can be," declared the girl. "They want to blame somebody----" "And they have blamed Nelson. It remains that he must prove himself innocent--before public opinion, not before a court. There they have to prove guilt. He is guilty already in the eyes of half of Polktown. No chance of waiting to be proved guilty before he is considered so." Janice flushed and her answer came sharply: "And how about the other half of Polktown?" "We may be evenly divided--fifty-fifty," and Bowman laughed grimly. "But the ones who believe--or _say_ that they believe--Nelson Haley guilty, will talk much louder than those who deny." "Oh, Frank Bowman! you take all my hope away." "I don't mean to. I want to point out to you--and myself, as well--that to sit idle and wait for the matter to settle itself, is not enough for us who believe Haley is guiltless. We've got to set about disproving the accusation." "I--I can see you are right," admitted the girl faintly. "Yes; I am right. But being right doesn't end the matter. The question is: How are we going about it to save Nelson?" Janice was rather shocked by this conclusion. Frank had seemed so clear up to this point. And then he slumped right down and practically asked her: "What are _you_ going to do about it?" "Oh, dear me!" cried Janice Day, faintly, "I don't know. I can't think. We must find some way of tracing the real thief. Oh! how can I think of that, when here poor 'Rill and Hopewell are in trouble?" "Never mind! Never mind, Janice!" said Frank Bowman. "We'll soon get Hopewell home. And I hope, too, that his wife will know enough to keep him away from the hotel hereafter." "But, suppose she can't," whispered Janice. "You know, his father was given to drinking." "No! Is that so?" "Yes. Maybe it is hereditary----" "Queer it didn't show itself before," said Bowman sensibly. "I am more inclined to believe that Joe Bodley is playing tricks. Why! he's kept bar in the city and I know he was telling some of the scatter-brained young fools who hang around the Inn, that he's often seen 'peter' used in men's drink to knock them out. 'Peter,' you know, is 'knock-out drops!'" "No, I don't know," said Janice, with disgust. "Or, I didn't till you told me." "Forgive me, Janice," the civil engineer said humbly. "I was only explaining." "Oh, I'm not blaming you at all," she said. "But I am angry to think that my own mind--as well as everybody's mind in Polktown--is being contaminated from this barroom. We are all learning saloon phrases. I never heard so much slang from Marty and the other boys, as I have caught the last few weeks. Having liquor sold in Polktown is giving us a new language." "Well," said Bowman, as the lights of the Inn came in sight, "I hadn't thought of it that way. But I guess you are right. Now, now, Janice, what had we better do? Hear the noise?" "What kind of dance is it?" asked Janice, in disgust. "I should think that it was a sailor's dance hall, or a lumber camp dance. I have heard of such things." "It's going a little too strong for Lem Parraday himself to-night, I guess. Marm shuts herself in their room upstairs, I understand, and reads her Bible and prays." "Poor woman!" "She's of the salt of the earth," said Bowman warmly. "But she can't help herself. Lem would do it. The Inn did not pay. And it is paying now. At least, he says it is." "It won't pay them in the end if this keeps up," said Janice, listening to the stamping and the laughter and the harsh sounds of violins and piano. "Surely Hopewell isn't making _all_ that--that music?" "I'll go in and see. I shouldn't wonder if he was not playing at all now. Maybe one of the boys has got his fiddle." "Oh, no! He'd never let that precious violin out of his own hands, would he?" queried Janice. "Why! do you know, Frank, I believe that is quite a valuable instrument." "I don't know. But when I started uptown one of the visitors was teasing to get hold of the violin. I don't know the man. He is a stranger--a black-haired, foxy-looking chap. Although, by good rights, I suppose a 'foxy-looking' person should be red-haired, eh?" Janice, however, was not splitting hairs. She said quickly: "Do go in; Frank, and see what Hopewell is about." "How'll I get him out?" "Tell him I want to see him. He'll think something has happened to 'Rill or Lottie. I don't care if he is scared. It may do him good." "I'll go around by the barroom door," said the young engineer, for they had come to the front entrance of the hotel. Lights were blazing all over the lower floor of the sprawling building; but from the left of the front door came the sound of dancing. Some of the windows were open and the shades were up. Janice, standing in the darkness of the porch, could see the dancers passing back and forth before the windows. By the appearance of those she saw, she judged that the girls and women were mostly of the mill-hand class, and were from Middletown and Millhampton. She knew the men of the party were of the same class. The tavern yard was full of all manner of vehicles, including huge party wagons which carried two dozen passengers or more. There was a big crowd. Janice felt, after all, as though she had urged Frank Bowman into the lion's den! The dancers were a rough set. She left the front porch after a while and stole around to the barroom door. The door was wide open, but there was a half-screen swinging in the opening which hid all but the legs and feet of the men standing at the bar. Here the voices were much plainer. There were a few boys hanging about the doorway, late as the hour was. Janice was smitten with the thought that Marty's boys' club, the foundation society of the Public Library and Reading Room, would better be after these youngsters. "Why, Simeon Howell!" she exclaimed suddenly. "You ought not to be here. I don't believe your mother knows where you are." The other boys, who were ragamuffins, giggled at this, and one said to young Howell: "Aw, Sim! Yer mother don't know yer out, does she? Better run home, Simmy, or she'll spank ye." Simeon muttered something not very complimentary to Janice, and moved away. The Howells lived on Hillside Avenue and he was afraid Janice would tell his mother of this escapade. Suddenly a burst of voices proclaimed trouble in the barroom. She heard Frank Bowman's voice, high-pitched and angry: "Then give him his violin! You've no right to it. I'll take him away all right; but the violin goes, too!" "No, we want the fiddle. He was to play for us," said a harsh voice. "There is another feller here can play instead. But we want both violins." "None of that!" snapped the engineer. "Give me that!" There was a momentary struggle near the flapping screen. Suddenly Hopewell Drugg, very much disheveled, half reeled through the door; but somebody pulled him back. "Aw, don't go so early, Hopewell. You're your own man, ain't ye? Don't let this white-haired kid boss you." "Let him alone, Joe Bodley!" commanded Bowman again, and Janice, shaking on the porch, knew that it must be the barkeeper who had interfered with Hopewell Drugg's escape. The girl was terror-stricken; but she was indignant, too. She shrank from facing the half-intoxicated crowd in the room just as she would have trembled at the thought of entering a cage of lions. Nevertheless, she put her hand against the swinging screen, pushed it open, and stepped inside the tavern door. CHAPTER XIV A DECLARATION OF WAR The room was a large apartment with smoke-cured and age-blackened beams in the ceiling. This was the ancient tap-room of the tavern, which had been built at that pre-Revolutionary time when the stuffed catamount, with its fangs and claws bared to the York State officers, crouched on top of the staff at Bennington--for Polktown was one of the oldest settlements in these "Hampshire Grants." No noisier or more ill-favored crew, Janice Day thought, could ever have been gathered under the roof of the Inn, than she now saw as she pushed open the screen. Tobacco smoke poisoned the air, floating in clouds on a level with the men's heads, and blurring the lamplight. There was a crowd of men and boys at the door of the dance hall. At the bar was another noisy line. It was evident that Joe Bodley had merely run from behind the bar for a moment to stop, if he could, Hopewell Drugg's departure. Hopewell was flushed, hatless, and trembling. Whether he was intoxicated or ill, the fact remained that he was not himself. The storekeeper clung with both hands to the neck of his violin. A greasy-looking, black-haired fellow held on to the other end of the instrument, and was laughing in the face of the expostulating Frank Bowman, displaying a wealth of white teeth, and the whites of his eyes, as well. He was a foreigner of some kind. Janice had never seen him before, and she believed he must be the "foxy-looking" man Frank had previously mentioned. It was, however, Joe Bodley, whom the indignant young girl confronted when she came so suddenly into the room. Most of the men present paid no attention to the quarreling group at the entrance. "Come now, Hopewell, be a sport," the young barkeeper was saying. "It's early yet, and we want to hear more of your fiddling. Give us that 'Darling, I Am Growing Old' stuff, with all the variations. Sentiment! Sentiment! Oh, hullo! Evening, Miss! What can I do for you?" He said this last impudently enough, facing Janice. He was a fat-faced, smoothly-shaven young man--little older than Frank Bowman, but with pouches under his eyes and the score of dissipation marked plainly in his countenance. He had unmeasured impudence and bravado in his eyes and in his smile. "I have come to speak to Mr. Drugg," Janice said, and she was glad she could say it unshakenly, despite her secret emotions. She would not give this low fellow the satisfaction of knowing how frightened she really was. Frank Bowman's back was to the door. Perhaps this was well, for he would have hesitated to do just what was necessary had he known Janice was in the room. The young engineer had not been bossing a construction gang of lusty, "two-fisted" fellows for six months without many rude experiences. "So, you won't let go, eh?" he gritted between his teeth to the smiling foreigner. With his left hand in his collar, Frank jerked the man toward him, thrust his own leg forward, and then pitched the fellow backward over his knee. This act broke the man's hold upon Drugg's violin and he crashed to the floor, striking the back of his head soundly. "All right, Mr. Drugg," panted Frank. "Get out." But it was Janice, still confronting Bodley, that actually freed the storekeeper from his enemies. Her eyes blazed with indignation into the bartender's own. His fat, white hand dropped from Hopewell's arm. "Oh, if the young lady's really come to take you home to the missus, I s'pose we'll have to let you go," he said, with a nasty laugh. "But no play, no pay, you understand." Janice drew the bewildered Hopewell out of the door, and Frank quickly followed. Few in the room had noted the incident at all. The three stood a minute on the porch, the mist drifting in from the lake and wetting them. The engineer finally took the umbrella from Janice and raised it to shelter her. "They--they broke two of the strings," muttered Hopewell, with thought for nothing but his precious violin. "You'd better cover it up, or it will be wet; and that won't do any fiddle any good," growled Frank, rather disgusted with the storekeeper. But there was something queer about Hopewell's condition that both puzzled Janice and made her pity him. "He is not intoxicated--not as other men are," she whispered to the engineer. "I don't know that he is," said Frank. "But he's made us trouble enough. Come on; let's get him home." Drugg was trying to shelter the precious violin under his coat. "He has no hat and the fiddle bag is gone," said Janice. "I'm not going back in there," said the civil engineer decidedly. And then he chuckled, adding: "That fellow I tipped over will be just about ready to fight by now. I reckon he thinks differently now about the 'white-headed kid,' as he called me. You see," Frank went on modestly, "I was something of a boxer at the Tech school, and I've had to keep my wits about me with those 'muckers' of the railroad construction gang." "Oh, dear, me! I think there must be something very tigerish in all of us," sighed Janice. "I was glad when I saw that black-haired man go down. What did he want Hopewell's violin for?" "Don't know. Just meanness, perhaps. They doctored Hopewell's drink somehow, and he was acting like a fool and playing ridiculously." They could talk plainly before the storekeeper, for he really did not know what was going on. His face was blank and his eyes staring, but he had buttoned the violin beneath the breast of his coat. "Come on, old fellow," Frank said, putting a heavy hand on Drugg's shoulder. "Let's be going. It's too wet to stand here." The storekeeper made no objection. Indeed, as they walked along, Hopewell between Frank and Janice, who carried the umbrella, Drugg seemed to be moving in a daze. His head hung on his breast; he said no word; and his feet stumbled as though they were leaden and he had no feeling in them. "Mr. Bowman!" exclaimed Janice, at last, and under her breath, "he is ill!" "I am beginning to believe so myself," the civil engineer returned. "I've seen enough drunken fellows before this to know that Hopewell doesn't show many of the usual symptoms." Janice halted suddenly. "There's a light in Mr. Massey's back room," she said. "Eh? Back of the drugstore? Yes, I see it," Bowman said, puzzled. "Why not take Mr. Drugg there and see if Massey can give him something? I hate to take him home to 'Rill in this condition." "Something to straighten him up--eh?" cried the engineer. "Good idea. If he's there and will let us in," he added, referring to the druggist, for the front store was entirely dark, it being now long past the usual closing hour of all stores in Polktown. Janice and Frank led Hopewell Drugg to the side door of the shop, he making no objection to the change in route. It was doubtful if he even knew where they were taking him. He seemed in a state of partial syncope. Frank had to knock the second time before there was any answer. They heard voices--Massey's and another. Then the druggist came to the entrance, unbolted it and stuck his head out--his gray hair all ruffled up in a tuft which made him, with his big beak and red-rimmed eyes, look like a startled cockatoo. "Who's this, now? Jack Besmith again? What did I tell you?" he snapped. Then he seemed to see that he was wrong, and the next moment exclaimed: "Wal! I am jiggered!" for, educated man though he was, Mr. Massey had lived in the hamlet of his birth all of his life and spoke the dialect of the community. "Wal! I am jiggered!" he repeated. "What ye got there?" "I guess you see whom we have, Mr. Massey," said Frank Bowman pushing in and leading the storekeeper. "Oh, Mr. Massey! It's Hopewell Drugg," Janice said pleadingly. "Can't you help him?" "Janice Day! I declare to sun-up!" ejaculated the druggist. "What you beauing about that half-baked critter for? And he's drunk?" "He is _not_!" cried the girl, with indignation. "At least, he is like no other drunken person I have seen. He is ill. They gave him something to drink down at the Inn--at that dance where he was playing his violin--and it has made him ill. Don't you _see_?" and she stamped her foot impatiently. "Hoity-toity, young lady!" chuckled Massey. They were all inside now and the druggist locked the door again. Behind the stove, in the corner, sat Mr. Cross Moore, and he did not say a word. "You can see yourself, Mr. Massey," urged Frank Bowman, helping Drugg into a chair, "that this is no ordinary drunk." "No," Massey said reflectively, and now looked with some pity at the helpless man. "Alcohol never did exhilarate Hopewell. It just dopes him. It does some folks. And it doesn't take much to do it." "Then Hopewell Drugg has been in the habit of drinking?" asked Bowman, in surprise. "You have seen him this way before?" "No, he hasn't. Never mind what these chattering old women in town say about him now. I never saw him this way but once before. That was when he had been given some brandy. 'Member that time, Cross, when we all went fishin' down to Pine Cove? Gosh! Must have been all of twenty years ago." All that Mr. Cross Moore emitted was a grunt, but he nodded. "Hopewell cut himself--'bad--on a rusty bailer. He fell on it and liked ter bled to death. You know, Cross, we gave him brandy and he was dead to the world for hours." "Yes," said Mr. Moore. "What did he want to drink now for?" "I do not believe he knowingly took anything intoxicating," Janice said earnestly. "They have been playing tricks down there at the tavern on him." "Tricks?" repeated Mr. Moore curiously. "Yes, sir," said Janice. "Men mean enough to sell liquor are mean enough to do anything. And not only those who actually sell the stuff are to blame in a case like this, but those who encourage the sale of it." Mr. Cross Moore uncrossed his long legs and crossed them slowly the other way. He always had a humorous twinkle in his shrewd gray eye. He had it now. "Meaning me?" he drawled, eyeing the indignant young girl just as he would look at an angry kitten. "Yes, Mr. Moore," said Janice, with dignity. "A word from you, and Lem Parraday would stop selling liquor. He would have to. And without your encouragement he would never have entered into the nefarious traffic. Polktown is being injured daily by that bar at the Inn, and you more than any other one person are guilty of this crime against the community!" Mr. Cross Moore did not change his attitude. Janice was panting and half crying now. The selectman said, slowly: "I might say that you are an impudent girl." "I guess I am," Janice admitted tearfully. "But I mean every word I have said, and I won't take it back." "You and I have been good friends, Janice Day," continued Mr. Moore in his drawling way. "I never like to quarrel with my friends." "You can be no friend of mine, Mr. Moore, till the sale of liquor stops in this town, and you are converted," declared Janice, wiping her eyes, but speaking quite as bravely as before. "Then it is war between us?" he asked, yet not lightly. "Yes, sir," sobbed Janice. "I always have liked you, Mr. Cross Moore. But now I can't bear even to look at you! I don't approve of you at all--not one little bit!" CHAPTER XV AND NOW IT IS DISTANT TROUBLE Mr. Massey had been attending to the overcome Hopewell Drugg. He mixed him something and forced it down his throat. Then he whispered to Frank Bowman: "It was brandy. I can smell it on his breath. Pshaw! Hopewell's a harmless critter. Why couldn't they let him alone?" Frank had taken up the violin. The moisture had got to it a little on the back and the young man thoughtlessly held it near the fire to dry. Hopewell's eyes opened and almost immediately he staggered to his feet, reaching for the instrument. "Wrong! wrong!" he muttered. "Never do that. Crack the varnish. Spoil the tone." "Hullo, old fellow!" said Mr. Massey, patting Hopewell on the shoulder. "Guess you feel better--heh?" "Ye--yes. Why! that you, Massey?" ejaculated the storekeeper, in surprise. "'Twas me when I got up this mornin'," grunted the druggist. "Why--why--I don't remember coming here to your store, Massey," said the mystified Hopewell Drugg. "I--I guess I didn't feel well." "I guess you didn't," said the druggist, drily, eyeing him curiously. "Was I sick? Lost consciousness? This is odd--very odd," said Hopewell. "I believe it must have been that lemonade." Mr. Cross Moore snorted. "Lemonade!" he ejaculated. "Suthin' b'sides tartaric acid to aid the lemons in that lemonade, Hopewell. You was drunk!" Drugg blinked at him. "That--that's a hard sayin', Cross Moore," he observed gently. "What lemonade was this, Hopewell?" demanded the druggist. "I had some. Two glasses. The other musicians took beer. I always take lemonade." "That's what did it," Frank Bowman said, aside to Janice. "Joe Bodley doped it." "You had brandy, Hopewell. I could smell it on your breath," said Massey. "And I know how that affects you. Remember?" "Oh, no, Massey! You know I do not drink intoxicants," said Hopewell confidently. "I know you are a dern fool, Hopewell--and mebbe I'm one!" declared Mr. Cross Moore, suddenly rising. Then he bolted for the door and went out without bidding anybody good night. Massey looked after his brother committeeman with surprise. "Now!" he muttered, "what's got into him, I'd like for to be told?" Meanwhile Hopewell was saying to Janice: "Miss Janice, how do you come here? I know Amarilla expected you. Isn't it late?" "Mr. Drugg," said the girl steadily, "we brought you here to be treated by Mr. Massey--Mr. Bowman and I. I do not suppose you remember our getting you out of the Lake View Inn?" "Getting me out of the Inn?" he gasped flushing. "Yes. You did not know what you were doing. They did not want you to leave the dance, but Mr. Bowman made them let you come away with us." "You don't mean that, Miss Janice?" said the storekeeper horrified. "Are--are you sure? I had not been drinking intoxicants." "Brandy, I tell ye, Hopewell!" exclaimed the druggist exasperated. "You keep away from the Inn. They're playing tricks on you down there, them fellers are. You ain't fit to run alone, anyway--and never was," he added, too low for Hopewell to hear. "And look out for that violin, Mr. Drugg, if you prize it at all," added Frank Bowman. "Why do you say that?" asked Hopewell puzzled. "I believe there was a fellow down there trying to steal it," the engineer said. "He had got it away from you and was looking inside of it. Is the name of the maker inside the violin? Is it a valuable instrument, Mr. Drugg?" "I--I don't know," the other said slowly. "Only for its associations, I presume. It was my father's instrument and he played on it a great many years. I--I think," said Hopewell diffidently, "that it has a wonderfully mellow tone." "Well," said Frank, "that black-haired fellow had it. And he looks like a fellow that's not to be trusted. There's more than Joe Bodley around that hotel who will bear watching, I guess." "I will not go down to Lem Parraday's again," sighed Hopewell. "I--I felt that I should earn all the extra money possible. You see, my little girl may have to return to Boston for treatment." "It's a mean shame!" muttered the civil engineer. "Oh! I hope you are wrong about Lottie," Janice said quickly. "The dear little thing! She seemed very bright to-night," she added, with more cheerfulness in her tone than she really felt. "Say, you don't want that violin stole, Hopewell," said Mr. Massey reflectively. "Enough's been stole in Polktown to-day, I should say, to last us one spell." "Never mind," put in Frank Bowman, scornfully, looking full at the druggist. "You won't have to pay for Mr. Drugg's violin if it is stolen." "Hum! Don't I know that?" snarled Massey. "We committeemen have our hands full with that missin' collection. Wish't we'd never voted to have the coins brought over here. Them lectures are mighty foolish things, anyway. That is scored up against young Haley, too. He wanted the lecture to come here." "And you are foolish enough to accuse Nelson of stealing the coins," said Bowman, in a low voice. "I should think you'd have more sense." "Hey!" exclaimed the druggist. "Who would _you_ accuse?" "Not Haley, that's sure." "Nobody but the committee, the janitor, and Haley knew anything about the coins," the druggist said earnestly. "They were delivered to me last night right here in the store by Mr. Hobart, the lecturer. He came through from Middletown a-purpose. He took the boat this morning for the Landing. Now, nobody else knew about the coins being in town----" "Who was here with you, Mr. Massey, when the coins were delivered to your keeping?" Janice Day interposed, for she had been listening. "Warn't nobody here," said Mr. Massey promptly. "You were alone in the store?" "Yes, I was," quite as positively. "What did you do with the trays?" "Locked 'em in my safe." "At once?" again asked Janice. "Say! what you tryin' to get at, young lady?" snorted the druggist. "Don't you s'pose I knew what I was about last night? I hadn't been down to Lem Parraday's." "Some of you didn't know what you were about this morning, or the coins never would have been lost," said Frank Bowman significantly. "That's easy enough to say," complained the committeeman. "It's easy enough to blame us----" "And it seems to be easy for you men to blame Mr. Haley," Janice interrupted indignantly. "Well!" "I'd like to know," continued the girl, "if there was not somebody around here who saw Mr. Hobart bring the coins in here and leave them with you." "What if there was?" demanded Mr. Massey with sudden asperity. "The coins were not stolen from this shop--make up your mind on that score, Miss Janice." "But if some evilly disposed person had seen them in your possession, he might have planned to do exactly what was afterward done." "What's that?" demanded the druggist. "Planned to get into the schoolhouse, wait till you brought the coins there, and then steal them." "Aw, young lady!" grunted the druggist. "That's too far-fetched. I don't want to hurt your feelin's; but young Haley was tempted, and young Haley fell. That's all there is to it." Janice was not silenced. She said reflectively: "We may all be mistaken. I really wish you would put your mind to it, Mr. Massey, and try to remember who was here in the evening, about the time that Mr. Hobart brought you the coin collection." She was not looking at the druggist as she spoke; but she was looking into the mirror over the prescription desk. And she could see Massey's face reflected in that glass. She saw his countenance suddenly change. It flushed, and then paled, and he showed great confusion. But he did not say a word. She was puzzled, but said no more to him. It did not seem as though there was anything more to say regarding the robbery and Nelson Haley's connection with it. Besides, Hopewell Drugg was gently reminding her that they must start for home. "I'm afraid Amarilla will be anxious. It--it is dreadfully late," he suggested. "We'll leave Mr. Massey to think it over," said Frank Bowman. "Maybe he'll come to a better conclusion regarding Nelson Haley." "I don't care who stole the coins. We want 'em back," growled the druggist, preparing to lock them all out. The trio separated on the corner. Hopewell was greatly depressed as he walked on with Janice Day. "I--I hope that Amarilla will not hear of this evening's performance. I declare! I had no idea that that Bodley young man would play me such a trick. I shall have to refuse to play for any more of the dances," he said, in his hesitating, stammering way. "You may be sure I shall not tell her," Janice said firmly. They went into the dark store together as though they had just met on the porch. "I'm awfully glad you've both come," said 'Rill Drugg. "I was getting real scared and lonesome. Mr. Bowman gone home, Janice?" The girl nodded. She had not much to say. The last hour had been so full of incident that she wanted to be alone and think it over. So she hurried to bid the storekeeper and his wife good night and went into the bedroom she was to share with little Lottie. Janice lay long awake. That was to be expected. Her mind was overwrought and her young heart burdened with a multitude of troubles. Her night spent with 'Rill had not turned out just as she expected, that was sure. From her window she could watch the front of Mrs. Beaseley's cottage and she saw that Nelson's lamp burned all night. He was wakeful, too. It made another bond between them; but it was not a bond that made Janice any more cheerful. She returned to the Day house early on Sunday morning, and her unobservant aunt did not notice the marks the young girl's sleepless night had left upon her countenance. Aunt 'Mira was too greatly distracted just then about a new gown she, with the help of Mrs. John-Ed. Hutchins, had made and was to wear for the first time on this occasion. "That is, if I kin ever git the pesky thing ter set straight over my hips. Do come here an' see what's the matter with it, Janice," Aunt 'Mira begged, in a great to-do over the frock. "What do you make of it?" "It doesn't fit very smoothly--that is true," Janice said gently. "I--I am afraid, Aunt 'Mira, that it draws so because you are not drawn in just the same as you were when the dress was fitted by Mrs. John-Ed." "My soul and body!" gasped the heavy lady, in desperation. "I knowed it! I felt it in my bones that she'd got me pulled in too tight." Janice finally got the good woman into proper shape to fit the new frock, rather than the new frock to fitting her, and started off with Aunt 'Mira to church, leaving Mr. Day and Marty to follow. Janice looked hopefully for Nelson. She really believed that he would change his determination at the last moment and appear at church. But he did not. Nor did anybody see him outside the Beaseley cottage all day. It was a very unhappy Sunday for Janice. The whole town was abuzz with excitement. There were two usually inoffensive persons "on the dissecting table," as Walky Dexter called it--Nelson and Hopewell Drugg. Much had already been said about the missing coin collection and Nelson Haley's connection with it; so the second topic of conversation rather overshadowed the schoolmaster's trouble. It was being repeated all about town that Hopewell Drugg had been taken home from the dance at the Lake View Inn "roaring drunk." Monday morning saw Nelson put to the test. Some of the boys gathered on the corner of High Street near the teacher's lodging, whispering together and waiting for his appearance. It was said by some that Mr. Haley would not appear; that he "didn't dare show his head outside the door." About quarter past eight that morning there were many more people on the main street of the lakeside village than were usually visible at such an hour. Especially was there a large number of women, and it was notorious that on that particular Monday more housewives were late with their weekly wash than ever before in the annals of Polktown. "Jefers-pelters!" muttered Walky Dexter, as he urged Josephus into High Street on his first trip downtown. "What's got ev'rybody? Circus in town? If so, it must ha' slipped my mind." "Yep," said Massey, the druggist, at his front door, and whom the expressman had hailed. "And here comes the procession." From up the hill came a troop of boys--most of them belonging in the upper class of the school. Marty was one of them, and in their midst walked the young schoolmaster! "I snum!" ejaculated Walky. "I guess that feller ain't got no friends--oh, no!" and he chuckled. The druggist scowled. "Boy foolishness. That don't mean nothing." "He, he, he! It don't, hey?" drawled Walky, chirping to Josephus to start him. "Wal--mebbe not. But if I was you, and had plate glass winders like you've got, an' no insurance on 'em, I wouldn't let that crowd of young rapscallions hear my opinion of Mr. Haley." Indeed, Marty and his friends had gone much further than passing resolutions. Nelson was their friend and chum as well as their teacher. He coached their baseball and football teams, and was the only instructor in gymnastics they had. The streak of loyalty in the average boy is the biggest and best thing about him. Nelson often joined the crowd on the way to the only level lot in town where games could be played; and this seemed like one of those Saturday occasions, only the boys carried their books instead of masks and bats. Their chorus of "Hullo, Mr. Haley!" "Morning, Mr. Haley!" and the like, as he reached the corner, almost broke down the determination the young man had gathered to show a calm exterior to the Polktown inhabitants. More than a few other well-wishers took pains to bow to the schoolmaster or to speak to him. And then, there was Janice, flying by in her car on her way to Middletown to school, passing him with a cheery wave of her gloved hand and he realized that she had driven this way in the car on purpose to meet him. Indeed, the young man came near to being quite as overwhelmed by this reception as he might have been had he met frowning or suspicious faces. But he got to the school, and the School Committee remained under cover--for the time being. Janice, coming back from Middletown in the afternoon, stopped at the post-office and got the mail. In it was a letter which she knew must be from her father, although the outer envelope was addressed in the same precise, clerkly hand which she associated with the mysterious Juan Dicampa. No introductory missive from the flowery Juan was inside, however; and her father's letter began as follows: "Dear daughter:-- "I am under the necessity of putting on your young shoulders more responsibility than I think you should bear. But I find that of a sudden I am confined to an output of one letter a month, and that one to you. As I write in English, and these about me read (if they are able to read at all) nothing but Spanish, I have some chance of getting information and instructions to my partners in Ohio, by this means, and by this means only. "First of all, I will assure you, dear child, that my health is quite, quite good. There is nothing the matter with me save that I am a 'guest of the State,' as they pompously call it, and I cannot safely work the mining property. I am not going to dig ore for the benefit of either the Federal forces or the Constitutionalists. "I shall stay to watch the property, however, and meanwhile the Zapatist chief in power here watches me. He takes pleasure in nagging and interfering with me in every possible way; so issues this last decree limiting the number of letters to one a month. "He would do more, but he dare not. I happen to be on friendly terms with a chief who is this fellow's superior. If the chief in charge here should harm me and my friend should feel so inclined, he might ride up here, and stand my enemy up against an adobe wall. The fellow knows it--and is aware of my friend's rather uncertain temper. That temper, my dear Janice, known to all who have ever heard of Juan Dicampa, and his abundant health, is the wall between me and a possibly sudden and very unpleasant end." There was a great deal more to the letter, but at first Janice could not go on with it for surprise. The clerkly writer with the abundance of flowery phrases, Juan Dicampa was, then, a Mexican chieftain--perhaps a half-breed Yaqui murderer! The thought rather startled Janice. Yet she was thankful to remember how warmly the man had written of her father. Much of what followed in her father's letter she had to transmit to the bank officials and others of his business associates in her old home town. But the important thing, it seemed all the time to Janice, was Juan Dicampa. She thought about him a great deal during the next few days. Mostly she thought about his health, and the chances of his being shot in some battle down there in Mexico. She began to read even more than heretofore of the Mexican situation in the daily papers. She began to look for mention of Dicampa, and tried to learn what manner of leader he was among his people. If Juan Dicampa should be removed what, then, would happen to Broxton Day? CHAPTER XVI ONE MATTER COMES TO A HEAD That was a black week for Janice as well as for the young schoolmaster. She could barely keep her mind upon her studies at the seminary. Nelson Haley's salvation was the attention he was forced to give to his classes in the Polktown school. One or another of the four committeemen who had constituted themselves his enemies, were hovering about Nelson all the time. He felt himself to be continually watched and suspected. Mr. Middler, who had been away on an exchange over Sunday, returned to find his parish split all but in two by the accusation against Nelson Haley. Mr. Middler was the fifth member of the School Committee, and both sides in the controversy clamored for him to take a hand in the case. "Gentlemen," he said to his four brother committeemen in Massey's back room, "I have not a doubt in my mind that you are all honestly convinced that Mr. Haley has stolen the coins. Otherwise you would not have made a matter public that was quite sure to ruin the young man's reputation." The four committeemen writhed under this thrust, and the minister went on: "On the other hand, I have no doubt in my mind that Mr. Haley is just as innocent as I am of the robbery." "Ye say that 'cause you air a clergyman," said Cross Moore bluntly. "It's your business to be allus seeing the good side of folks, whether they've got a good side, or not." The minister flushed. "I thank God I can see the good side of my fellow men," he said quickly. "I can even see your good side, Mr. Moore, when you are willing to uncover it. You do not show it now, when you persecute this young man----" "'Persecute'? We oughter prosecute," flashed forth Cross Moore. "The fellow's as guilty as can be. Nobody else could have done it." "I wonder?" returned the minister, and walked out before there could be further friction between them; for he liked the hard-headed, shrewd, and none-too-honest politician, as he liked few men in Polktown. If the minister did not distinctly array himself with the partisans of Nelson Haley, he expressed his full belief in his honesty in a public manner. And at Thursday night prayer meeting he incorporated in his petition a request that his parishioners be not given to judging those under suspicion, and that a spirit of charity be spread abroad in the community at just this time. The next day, Walky Dexter said, that charitable spirit the minister had prayed for "got awfully swatted." News spread that on the previous Saturday, only a few hours after the coin collection was missed, Nelson Haley had sent away a post-office money order for two hundred dollars. "That's where a part of the missing money went," was the consensus of public opinion. How this news leaked out from the post-office was a mystery. But when taxed with the accusation Nelson's pride made him acknowledge the fact without hesitation. "Yes; I sent away two hundred dollars. It went to my aunt in Sheffield. I owed it to her. She helped me through college." "Where did I get the money? I saved it from my salary." Categorically, these were his answers. "If that young feller only could be tongue-tied for a few weeks, he might git out o' this mess in some way," Walky Dexter said. "He talks more useless than th' city feller that was a-sparkin' one of our country gals. He talked mighty high-falutin'--lots dif'rent from what the boys she'd been bringed up with talked. "Sez he: 'See haow b-e-a-u-tiful th' stars shine ter-night. An' if th' moon would shed--would shed----' 'Never mind the woodshed,' sez the gal. 'Go on with yer purty talk.' Haw! haw! haw! "Now, this here Nelson Haley ain't got no more control of his tongue than that feller had. Jefers-pelters! what ye goin' ter do with a feller that tells ev'rything he knows jest because he's axed?" "He's perfectly honest," Janice cried. "That shows it." "If he's puffec' at all," grunted Walky, "he's a puffec' fule! That's what he is!" And Nelson Haley's frankness really did spell disaster. Taking courage from the discovery of the young schoolmaster's use of money, the committee swore a warrant out for him before Judge Little. It was done very quietly; but Nelson's friends, who were on the watch for just such a move, were informed almost as soon as the dreadful deed was done. News of it came to the Day house on Saturday afternoon, just before supper-time. On this occasion Uncle Jason waited for no meal to be eaten. Marty ran and got out Janice's car. His cousin and Mr. Day joined him while Aunt 'Mira came to the kitchen door with the inevitable slice of pork dangling from her fork. "I'd run him right out o' the county, that's what I'd do, Janice, an' let Cross Moore and Massey whistle for him!" cried the angry lady. "Leastwise, don't ye let that drab old crab, Poley Cantor, take him to jail." "We'll see about _that_," said Uncle Jason grimly. "Let her go, Marty--an' see if ye can git us down the hill without runnin' over nobody's pup." Perhaps Judge Little had purposely delayed giving the warrant to Constable Cantor to serve. The Days found Nelson at home and ran him down to the justice's office before the constable had started to hunt for his prey. The "drab" old constable met them in front of the justice's office and marched back into the room with Janice and Nelson and Marty and his father. Judge Little looked surprised when they entered. "What's this? what's this?" he demanded, smiling at Janice. "Another case of speeding, Janice Day?" "Somebody's been speeding, I reckon, Jedge," drawled Mr. Day. "And their wheels have skidded, too. I understand that you've issued a warrant for Mr. Haley?" "Had to do it, Jason--positively _had_ to," said the justice. "Better serve it right here, quietly, Constable. This is a serious matter, Mr. Haley. I'm sorry." "Wal," drawled Uncle Jason, "it ain't so serious; I s'pose, but what you kin take bail for him? I'm here to offer what leetle tad of property I own. An' if ye want more'n I got, I guess I kin find all ye want purty quick." "That'll be all right, Jason," Judge Little said quickly. "I'll put him under nominal bail, only. We'll have a hearing Monday evening, if that's agreeable to----" "Nossir!" exclaimed Uncle Jason promptly. "This business ain't goin' ter be hurried. We gotter git a lawyer--and a good one. I dunno but Mr. Haley will refuse to plead and the case will hatter be taken to a higher court. Why, Jedge Little! this here means life an' repertation to this young man, and his friends aren't goin' ter see no chance throwed away ter clear him and make them school committeemen tuck their tails atween their laigs, an' skedaddle!" "Oh, very well, Jason. We'll set the examination for next Saturday, then?" "That'll be about right," said Uncle Jason. "Give us a week to turn around in. What d'ye say, Mr. Haley?" "I'd like to have it over as quickly as possible," sighed the young man. "But I think you know best, Mr. Day." He could not honestly feel grateful. As they got into the car again to whirl up the hill to the Day house for supper, Nelson felt a little doubtful, after all, of Mr. Day's wisdom in putting off the trial. "I might just as well be tried, convicted, and sentenced right now, as to have it put off a week," he said, after they reached the Day place. "They've got me, and they mean to put me through. A demand has been made upon the committee through the State Board by the owner of the collection of coins. The value of the collection is placed by the owner at sixteen hundred and fifty dollars, their face value--although some of the pieces were rare, and worth more. There is not a man of the quartette that would not sell his soul for four hundred and twelve dollars and fifty cents!" "_Now_ you've said a mouthful!" grunted Marty, in agreement. "That's a hard sayin'," Mr. Day observed judiciously. "They're all--th' hull quadruped (Yes, Marty, that's what I meant, 'quartette,') of 'em--purty poor pertaters, I 'low. But four hundred dollars is a lot of money for any man ter lose." Nelson was very serious, however. He said to Janice: "You see now, can't you, why I can not teach any longer? I should not have done it this past week. I shall ask for my release. It is neither wise, nor right for a person accused of robbery to teach school in the community." "Oh, Nelson!" gasped the girl despairing. "Hi tunket! I won't go to school--_a-tall_, if they don't let you teach, Mr. Haley," cried Marty. "Of course you will, Marty," said the schoolmaster. "I shall need you boys right there to stand up for me." "Well!" gasped the very red lad, "you kin bet if they put Miss Pearly Breeze inter your place, I won't go. I've vowed I won't never go to school to no old maid again!" "Wal, now you've said it," sniffed his father, "and hev relieved your mind, s'pose ye bring in some wood for the settin' room stove. We need a spark o' fire to take the chill off." Meanwhile Nelson was saying: "I will resign; I will not wait for them to request me to get out. If you will lend me ink and paper, Janice, I'll write my resignation here and hand it to Massey as I go home." "But, Mr. Middler----" began Janice. "Mr. Middler is only one of five. He has no power now in the committee, for the other four are against him. Cross Moore and Massey and Crawford and Joe Pellet mean to put it on me if they can. I think they have already had legal advice. I think they will attempt to escape responsibility for the loss of the coin collection by prosecuting and convicting me of having stolen the money. They were not under bond, you know." "It's a mess! it's a mess!" groaned Uncle Jason, "whichever way ye look at it. What ye goin' ter do, Mr. Haley, if ye don't teach?" "I'd go plumb away from here an' never come back to Polktown no more!" declared the heated Marty, coming in with an armful of wood. "I feel as though I might as well do that, Marty, when I hear you speak," said Nelson, shaking his head. "What good does it do you to go to school? I have failed somewhere when you use such poor grammar as----" "Huh! what's good grammar?" demanded the boy, so earnest that he interrupted the teacher. "That won't make ye a civil engineer--and that's what I'm goin' ter be." "A proper use of English will help even in that calling in life," said the schoolmaster. "But seriously, I have no intention of running away." "Ye don't wanter be idle," Mr. Day said. "I'll find something to do, I fancy. But whether or no, it shall not be said of me that I was afraid to face this business. I won't run away from it." Janice squeezed his hand privately in approval. She had been afraid that he might wish to flee. And who could blame him? During this week of trial, however, Nelson Haley had recovered his self-control, and had deliberately made up his mind to the manly course. Nevertheless, he did not appear in his accustomed place in church on the morrow. It was not possible for him to walk boldly up the church aisle among the people who doubted his honesty, or would sneer at him, either openly or behind his back. And it was known all over the town by church time that Sunday that he had been arrested, bailed, and had asked the school committee for a vacation of indefinite length and without pay, and that this had been granted. Miss Pearly Breeze and her contingent of trends were not happy for long. The School Committee knew that a return to old methods in school matters would never satisfy Polktown again. They telegraphed the State Superintendent of Schools and a proper and capable substitute for Mr. Haley was expected to arrive on Monday. It was on Monday morning, too, that Nelson's partisans and the enemy came to open warfare. That is, the junior portion of the community began belligerent action. Janice was rather belated that morning in starting for Middletown in the Kremlin car. Marty jumped on the running board with his school books in a strap, to ride down the hill to the corner of School Street. Just as they came in sight of Polktown's handsome brick schoolhouse, there was Nelson Haley briskly approaching. He had given up his key to the committee on Saturday night; but there were books and private papers in his desk that he desired to remove before his successor arrived. The front door was locked and he had to wait for Benny Thread to hobble up from the basement to open it. This delay brought every woman on the block to her front windows. Some peeped from behind the blinds; some boldly came out on their "stoops" to eye the unfortunate schoolmaster askance. A group of boys were gathered on the corner within plain earshot of the schoolmaster. As Janice turned the car carefully into School Street Sim Howell, one of these young loungers, uttered a loud bray. "What d'ye s'pose he's after now?" he then demanded of nobody in particular, but loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. "S'pose he thinks there's any more money in there ter steal?" "Stop, Janice!" yelped Marty. "I knew I'd got ter do it. That feller's been spoilin' for it for a week! Lemme down, I say!" He did not wait for his cousin to obey his command. Before she could stop the car he took a flying leap from the running-board of the automobile. His books flew one way, his cap another; and with a wild shout of rage, Marty fell upon Sim Howell! CHAPTER XVII THE OPENING OF THE CAMPAIGN Janice ran the car on for half a block before she stopped. She looked back. She had never approved of fisticuffs--and Marty was prone to such disgraceful activities. Nevertheless, when she saw Sim Howell's blood-besmeared countenance, his wide-open mouth, his clumsy fists pawing the air almost blindly, something primal--instinctive--made her heart leap in her bosom. She delighted in Marty's clean blows, in his quick "duck" and "side-step;" and when her cousin's freckled fist impinged upon the fatuous countenance of Sim Howell, Janice Day uttered an unholy gasp of delight. She saw Nelson striding to separate the combatants. She hoped he would not be harsh with Marty. Then, seeing the neighbors gathering, she pressed the starter button and the Kremlin glided on again. The tall young schoolmaster was between the two boys, holding each off at arm's length, when Janice wheeled around the far corner and gave a last glance at the field of combat. "I am getting to be a wicked, wicked girl!" she accused herself, when she was well out of town and wheeling cheerfully over the Lower Road toward Middletown. "I have just longed to see that Simeon Howell properly punished ever since I caught him that day mocking Jim Narnay. And _that_ arises from the influence of Lem Parraday's bar. Oh, dear me! _I_ am affected by the general epidemic, I believe. "If the Inn did not sell liquor, in all human probability, Narnay would not have been drunk that day; at least, not where I could see him. And so Sim and those other young rascals would not have chased and mocked him. I would not have felt so angry with Sim--Dear me! everything dovetails together, Nelson's trouble and all. I wonder if, after all, the selling of liquor at the Inn isn't at the bottom of Nelson's trouble. "It sounds foolish--or at least, far-fetched. But it may be so. Perhaps the person who stole those coins was inspired to do the wicked deed because he was under the influence of liquor. And, of course, the Lake View Inn was the nearest place where liquor was to be bought. "Dear me! Am I foolish? Who knows?" Janice concluded, with a sigh. The thought of Sim Howell mocking Jim Narnay reminded her of the latter's unfortunate family. She had been only once to the little cottage near Pine Cove since Narnay had gone into the woods with Trimmins and Jack Besmith. Nor had she been able to see Dr. Poole, amid her multitudinous duties, and ask him how the nameless little baby was getting on; although she had at once left a note at the doctor's office asking him to call and see the child at her expense. The peril threatening her father and the peril threatening Nelson Haley filled Janice Day's mind and heart so full that other interests had been rather lost sight of during the past eventful week. She had not seen Frank Bowman since the time they had separated on the street corner by the drug store, late Saturday night, when she had taken Hopewell Drugg home. Bowman was with his railroad construction gang not far off the Lower Middletown Road. But Janice had been going to and from school by the Upper Road, past Elder Concannon's place, because it was dryer. This morning, however, Frank heard her car coming, and he appeared, plunging through the jungle, shouting to her to stop. He could scarcely make a mistake in hailing the car, for Janice's automobile was almost the only one that ran on this road. By summer time, however, the boarding house people and Lem Parraday hoped that automobiles in Polktown would be, in the words of Walky Dexter, "as thick as fleas on a yaller hound." Janice saw Frank Bowman coming, if she did not hear him call, and slowed down. He strode crashingly down the hillside in his high boots, corduroys, and canvas jacket, his face flushed with exercise and, of course, broadly smiling. Janice liked the civil engineer immensely. He lacked Nelson Haley's solid character and thoughtfulness; but he always had a fund of enthusiasm on tap. "How goes the battle, Janice?" was his cheery call, as he leaped down into the roadway and thrust out a gloved hand to grasp hers. "I guess, by now, Simmy Howell has learned a thing or two," she declared, her mind on the scrimmage she had just seen. "What?" demanded Bowman, wonderingly. At that Janice burst into a laugh. "Oh! I am a perfect heathen. I suppose you did not mean Marty's battle with his schoolmate. But that was in my mind." "What's Marty fighting about now?" asked the civil engineer, with a puzzled smile. "And are you interested in such sparring encounters?" "I was in this one," confessed Janice. Then she told him of the occurrence--and its cause, of course. "Well, I declare!" said Frank Bowman, happily. "For once I fully approve of Marty." "Do you? Well, to tell the truth, so do I!" gasped Janice, laughing again. "But I know it is wicked." "Guess the whole Day family feels friendly toward Nelson," declared the engineer. "I hear Mr. Day went on Nelson's bond Saturday night." "Yes, indeed. Dear Uncle Jason! He's slow, but he's dependable." "Well, I am glad Nelson Haley has some friends," Bowman said quickly. "But I didn't stop you to say just this." "No?" "No," said the civil engineer. "When I asked you, 'How goes the battle?' I was thinking of something you said the other night when we were rounding up that disgraceful old reprobate, Hopewell Drugg," and he laughed. "Oh, poor Hopewell! Isn't it a shame the way they talk about him?" "It certainly is," agreed Frank Bowman. "But whether Hopewell Drugg is finally injured in character by Lem Parraday's bar or not, enough other people are being injured. You said you'd do anything to see it closed." "I would," cried Janice. "At least, anything I could do." "By jove! so would I!" exclaimed Frank Bowman, vigorously. "It was pay night for my men last Saturday night. One third of them have not shown up this morning, and half of those that have are not fit for work. I've got a reputation to make here. If this drunkenness goes on I'll have a fat chance of making good with the Board of Directors of the railroad." "How about making good with that pretty daughter of Vice President Harrison's?" asked Janice, slily. Bowman blushed and laughed. "Oh! she's kind. She'll understand. But I can't take the same excuses for failure to a Board of Directors." "Of course not," laughed Janice. "A mere Board of Directors hasn't half the sense of a lovely girl--nor half the judgment." "You're right!" cried Bowman, seriously. "However, to get back to my men. They've got to put the brake on this drinking stuff, or I'll never get the job done. As long as the drink is right here handy in Polktown, I'm afraid many of the poor fellows will go on a spree every pay day." "It is too bad," ventured Janice, warmly. "I guess it is! For them and me, too!" said Bowman, shaking his head. "Do you know, these fellows don't want to drink? And they wouldn't drink if there was anything else for them to do when they have money in their pockets. Let me tell you, Janice," he added earnestly, "I believe that if these fellows had it to vote on right now, they'd vote 'no license' for Polktown--yes, ma'am!" "Oh! I wish we could _all_ vote on it," cried Janice. "I am sure more people in Polktown would like to see the bar done away with, than desire to have it continued." "I guess you're right!" agreed Bowman. "But, of course, we 'female women,' as Walky calls us, can't vote." "There are enough men to put it down," said Bowman, quickly. "And it can come to a vote in Town Meeting next September, if it's worked up right." "Oh, Frank! Can we do that?" "Now you've said it!" crowed the engineer. "That's what I meant when I wondered if you had begun your campaign." "_My_ campaign?" repeated Janice, much flurried. "Why, yes. You intimated the other night that you wanted the bar closed, and Walky has told all over town that you're 'due to stir things up,' as he expresses it, about this dram selling." "Oh, dear!" groaned Janice, in no mock alarm. "My fatal reputation! If my friends really loved me they would not talk about me so." "I'm afraid there is some consternation under Walky's talk," said Bowman, seriously. "He likes a dram himself and would be sorry to see the bar chased out of Polktown. I hope you can do it, Janice." "Me--_me_, Frank Bowman! You are just as bad as any of them. Putting it all on my shoulders." "The time is ripe," went on the engineer, seriously. "You won't be alone in this. Lots of people in the town see the evil flowing from the bar. Mrs. Thread tells me her brother would never have lost his job with Massey if it hadn't been for Lem Parraday's rum selling." "Do you mean Jack Besmith?" cried Janice, startled. "That's the chap. Mrs. Thread is a decent little woman, and poor Benny is harmless enough. But she is worried to death about her brother." Janice, remembering the condition of the ex-drug clerk when he left Polktown for the woods, said heartily: "I should think she would be worried." "She tells me he tried to get back his job with Massey on Friday night--the evening before he went off with Trimmins and Narnay. But I expect he'd got Mr. Massey pretty well disgusted. At any rate, the druggist turned him down, and turned him down hard." "Poor fellow!" sighed Janice. "I don't know. Oh, I suppose he's to be pitied," said Frank Bowman, with some disgust. "Anyhow, Besmith got thoroughly desperate, went down to the Inn after his interview with his former employer, and spent all the money he had over Lem's bar. He didn't come home at all that night----" "Oh!" exclaimed Janice, remembering suddenly where Jack Besmith had probably slept off his debauch, for she had seen him asleep in her uncle's sheepfold on that particular Saturday morning. "He's a pretty poor specimen, I suppose," said the engineer, eyeing Janice rather curiously. "He's one of the weak ones. But there are others!" Janice was silent for a moment. Indeed, she was not following closely Bowman's remarks. She was thinking of Jack Besmith. Mr. Massey had evidently been much annoyed by his discharged clerk. When she and Frank Bowman, with Hopewell Drugg, had gone to the druggist's back door that eventful Saturday night, Massey had thought it was Jack Besmith summoning him to the door. Massey had spoken Besmith's name when he first opened the door and peered out into the mist. "Now, Janice," she suddenly heard Frank Bowman say, "what shall we do?" She awoke to the subject under discussion with a start. "Goodness! do you really expect me to tell you?" "Why--why, you see, Janice, you've got ideas. You always do have," said the civil engineer, humbly. "I've talked to such of my men as have come back to work this morning. Of course, they have been off before, on pay day; but this is the worst. They had a big time down there at the Inn Saturday night and Sunday morning." "Poor Mrs. Parraday!" sighed Janice. "You're right. I'm sorry for Marm Parraday. She's the salt of the earth. But there are more than Marm Parraday suffering through Lem's selling whiskey. But about my boys," added the engineer. "They tell me if the stuff wasn't so handy they would finish the job without going on these sprees. And I believe they would." "Well! I'll think about it," Janice rejoined, preparing to start her car. "I suppose if I don't go ahead in the matter, the railroad will never get its branch road built into Polktown?" and she laughed. "That's about the size of it!" cried Bowman, as the wheels began to roll. But it was of Jack Besmith, the ex-drug clerk, that Janice Day thought as she sped on toward the seminary and not of the opening of the campaign against the liquor traffic in Polktown, which she felt had really been organized on this morning. In some way the ne'er-do-well was connected in her mind with another train of thought that, until now, had had "the right of way" in her inner consciousness. What had Jack Besmith to do with Nelson Haley's troubles? Janice Day was puzzled. CHAPTER XVIII HOPEWELL SELLS HIS VIOLIN Janice Day had no intention of avoiding what seemed, finally, to be a duty laid upon her. If everybody else in Polktown opposed to the sale of liquor, merely complained about it--and in a hopeless, helpless way--it was not in her disposition to do so. She was Broxton Day's own daughter and she absolutely had to _do something_! She was imbued with her father's spirit of helpfulness, and she believed thoroughly in his axiom: If a thing is wrong, go at it and make it right. Of course, Janice knew very well that a young girl like herself could do little in reality about this awful thing that had stalked into Polktown. She could do nothing of her own strength to put down the liquor traffic. But she believed she might set forces in motion which, in the end, would bring about the much-desired reformation. She had done it before. Her inspiration had touched all of Polktown and had awakened and rejuvenated the old place. She had learned that all that the majority of people needed to rank them on the active side of right, was to be made to think. She determined that Polktown should be made to think upon this subject of liquor selling. After school she drove around by the Upper Road and branched off into a woods path that she had not dared venture into the week before. The Spring winds had done much to dry this woodroad and there were not many mud-holes to drive around before she came in sight of the squatters' cabin occupied by the family of Mr. Trimmins. This transplanted family of Georgia "crackers" had been a good deal of a misfit in the Vermont community until Janice had found and interested herself in them. Virginia, a black-haired sprite of eleven or twelve, was the leader of the family in all things, although there were several older children. But "Jinny" was born to be a commander. Having made a friend of the little witch of a girl, and of Buddy, who had been the baby the year before, but whose place had been usurped because of the advent of another tow-head into the family, the others of "them Trimminses," as they were spoken of in Polktown, had become Janice Day's staunch friends. Virginia and two of her sisters came regularly to the meetings of the Girls' Guild which Janice had founded; but it was a long walk to the Union Church and Janice really wondered how they ever got over the road in stormy weather. It always puzzled Janice where so many children managed to sleep when bedtime came, unless they followed the sea law of "watch and watch." Now all the children who were at home poured out of the cabin to greet the driver of the Kremlin car. The whole family, as now arrayed before her, she had not seen since Christmas. She had not forgotten to bring a great bag of "store cakes," of which these poor little Trimminses were inordinately fond; so most of them soon drifted away, each with a share of the goodies, leaving Janice to talk with Mrs. Trimmins and Jinny and play with Buddy and the baby. "It's a right pretty evening, Miss Janice," said Mrs. Trimmins. "I shell be glad enough when the settled weather comes to stay. I kin git some o' these young'uns out from under foot all day long, then. "Trimmins has got a gang wo'kin' for him over th' mountain a piece----" "Here comes dad now," said the sharp-eyed Virginia. "And the elder's with him." "Why--ya-as," drawled her mother, "so 'tis. It's one of Concannon's timber lots Trimmins is a-wo'kin' at." The elder, vigorous and bewhiskered, came tramping into the clearing like a much younger man. Trimmins slouched along by his side, chewing a twig of black birch. "No, Trimmins," the elder was saying decisively. "We'll stick to the letter of the contract. I furnish the team and feed them. I went a step further and furnished supplies for three men instead of two. But not one penny do you nor they handle till the job is finished." "That's all right, Elder," drawled the Georgian. "That's 'cordin' to contrac', I know. I don't keer for myself. But Narnay and that other feller are mighty hongree for a li'le change." "Powerful thirsty, ye mean!" snorted the elder. "Wa-al--mebbe so! mebbe so!" agreed Trimmins, with a weak grin. "They knew the agreement before they started in with you on the job, didn't they?" "Oh, ya-as. They knowed about the contrac'." "'Nuff said, then," grunted the elder. "Oh! is that you, Janice Day? I'll ride back with you," added the elder, who had quite overcome his dislike for what he had formerly termed "devil wagons," since one very dramatic occasion when he himself had discovered the necessity for traveling much "faster than the law allowed." "You are very welcome, Elder Concannon," Janice said, smiling at him. She kissed the two babies and Virginia, shook hands with Mrs. Trimmins, and then waved a gloved hand to the rest of the family as she settled herself behind the steering wheel. The elder got into the seat beside her. "I declare for't, Janice!" the elder said, as the started, the words being fairly jerked ouf of his mouth, "I dunno but I'd like to own one of these contraptions myself. You can git around lively in 'em--and that's a fac'." "They are a whole lot better than 'shanks' mare,' Elder," said the young girl, laughing. "I--should--say! And handy, too, when the teams are all busy. Now I had to walk clean over the mountain to-day to that piece where Trimmins and them men are working. Warn't a hoss fit to use." "Has Mr. Trimmins a big gang at work?" The elder chuckled. "He calls it a gang--him, and Jim Narnay, and a boy. They've all got a sleight with the axe, I do allow; and the boy handles the team right well." "Is he Jack Besmith?" questioned Janice. "That's his name, I believe," said the elder. "Likely boy, I guess. But if I let 'em have any money before the job is done--as Trimmins wants me to--none of 'em would do much till the money was spent--boy and all." "It is too bad about young Besmith," Janice said, shaking her head. "He is only a boy." "Yep. But a month or so in the woods without drink will do him a heap of good." That very evening, however, Janice saw Jack Besmith in town. From Marty she learned that he did not stay long. "He came in for booze--that's what he come for," said her cousin, in disgust. "He started right back for the woods with a two-gallon demi-john." "And I thought they had no money up there," Janice reflected. "Can it be that Lem Parraday or his barkeeper would trust them for drink?" Marty was nursing a lump on his jaw and a cut lip. The morning's battle, had not gone all his way, although he said to Janice with his usual impish grin when she commented upon his battered appearance: "You'd orter see the other feller! If Nelson Haley hadn't got in betwixt us I'd ha' whopped Sim Howell good and proper. I was some excited, I allow. If I hadn't been I needn't never run ag'inst Sim's fist a-_tall_. He's a clumsy kid, if ever there was one--and I reckon he's got enough of me for a spell. Anyway, he won't get fresh with Mr. Haley again--nor none of the rest of 'em." "Dear me, Marty! it seems too bad that any of the boys should feel so unkindly toward Mr. Haley, after all he's done for them." "They're a poor lot--fellers like Sim Howell. Hang around the tavern hoss sheds all the time. Can't git 'em to come up to the Readin' Room with the decent fellers," Marty said belligerently. Marty had forgotten that--not so long before--he had been a frequenter of the tavern "hoss sheds" himself. That was before Janice had started the Public Library Association and the boys' club. Janice did not see Nelson that evening, and she wondered what he was doing with his idle time. So the following afternoon she came home by the Lower Road, meaning to call on the schoolmaster. She stopped her car before Hopewell Drugg's store and ran in there first. 'Rill was behind the counter; but from the back room the wail of the violin announced Hopewell's presence. The lively tunes which the storekeeper had played so much through the Winter just past--such as "Jingle Bells" and "Aunt Dinah's Quilting Party"--seemed now forgotten. Nor was Hopewell in a sentimental mood and his old favorite, "Silver Threads Among the Gold," could not express his feelings. "Old Hundred" was the strain he played, and he drew it lingeringly out of the strings until it fairly rasped the nerves. No son of Israel, weeping against the wall in old Jerusalem, ever expressed sorrow more deeply than did Hopewell's fiddle at the present juncture. "Oh, dear, Janice! that's the way he is all day long," whispered the bride, the tears sparkling in her eyes. "He says Lottie _must_ go to Boston, and I guess he's right. The poor little thing doesn't see anywhere near as good as she did." "Oh, my dear!" cried Janice, under her breath. "I wish I could help pay for her trip." "No. You've done your part, Janice. You paid for the treatment before----" "I only helped," interrupted Janice. "It was a great, big help. Hopewell can never repay you," said the wife. "And he can accept no more from you, dear." "But I haven't got it to offer!" almost wailed Janice. "Daddy's mine is shut down again. I--I could almost wish to sell my car--only it was a particular present from daddy----" "No, indeed! There is going to be something else sold, I expect," 'Rill said gravely. "Here! let us go back. I don't like even to see this fellow come in here. Hopewell must wait on him." Janice turned to see Joe Bodley, the fat, smirking bartender from the Lake View Inn, now entering the store. "Afternoon, Mrs. Drugg!" he called after the storekeeper's retreating wife. "I won't bite ye." "Mr. Drugg will be right in," said 'Rill, beckoning Janice away. Hopewell entered, violin in hand. He greeted Janice in his quiet way and then spoke to Bodley. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Bodley?" "Now, how about that fiddle, Hopewell? D'ye really want to sell it?" asked the bartender, lightly. "I--I must sell it, Mr. Bodley. I feel that I _must_," said Hopewell, in his gentle way. "It's as good as sold, then, old feller," said the barkeeper. "I've got a customer for it." "Ah! but I must have my price. Otherwise it will do me no good to sell the violin which I prize so highly--and which my father played before me." "That's Yankee talk," laughed Bodley. "How much?" "I believe it is a valuable instrument--a very valuable instrument," said poor Hopewell, evidently in fear of not making the sale, yet determined to obtain what he considered a fair price for it. "At least, I know 't is an _old_ violin." "One of the 'old masters,' eh?" chuckled Bodley. "Perhaps. I do not think you will care to pay my price, sir," said the storekeeper, with dignity. "I've got a customer for it. He seen it down to the dance--and he wants it. What's your price?" repeated Bodley. "I thought some of sending it to New York to be valued," Hopewell said slowly. "My man will buy it--sight unseen, as ye might say--on my recommend. He only saw it for a moment," said Bodley. "What will he give for it?" asked Hopewell. "How much do you want?" "One hundred dollars, Mr. Bodley," said the storekeeper, this time with more firmness. "_What_? One hundred of your grandmother's grunts! Why, Hopewell, there _ain't_ so much money--not in Polktown, at least--'nless it's hid away in a broken teapot on the top shelf of a cupboard in Elder Concannon's house. They say he's got the first dollar he ever earned, and most all that he's gathered since that time." Janice heard all this as she stood in the back room with 'Rill. Then, having excused herself to the storekeeper's wife, she ran out of the side door to go across the street to Mrs. Beaseley's. In fact, she could not bear to stay there and hear Hopewell bargain for the sale of his precious violin. It seemed too, too, bad! It had been his comfort--his only consolation, indeed--for the many years that circumstances had kept him and 'Rill Scattergood apart. And after all, to be obliged to dispose of it---- Janice remembered how she had brought little Lottie home to the storekeeper the very day she first met him, and how he had played "Silver Threads Among the Gold" for her in the dark, musty back room of the old store. Why! Hopewell Drugg would be utterly lost without the old fiddle. She was glad Mrs. Beaseley was rather an unobservant person, for Janice's eyes were tear-filled when she looked into the cottage kitchen. Nelson, however, was not at home. He had gone for a long tramp through the fields and had not yet returned. So, leaving word for him to come over to the Day house that evening, Janice went slowly back to her car. Before she could start it 'Rill came outside. Bodley had gone, and the storekeeper's wife was frankly weeping. "Poor Hopewell! he's sold the fiddle," sobbed 'Rill. "To that awful bartender?" demanded Janice. "Just as good as. The fellow's paid a deposit on it. If he comes back with the rest of the hundred dollars in a month, the fiddle is his. Otherwise, Hopewell declares he will send it to New York and take what he can get for it." "Oh, dear me!" murmured Janice, almost in tears, too. "It--it is all Hopewell can do," pursued 'Rill. "He has nothing else on which he can raise the necessary money. Lottie must have her chance." CHAPTER XIX THE GOLD COIN The campaign against liquor selling in Polktown really had been opened on that Monday morning when Janice and Frank Bowman conferred together near the scene of the young engineer's activities for the railroad. The determination of two wide-awake young people to _do something_ was the beginning of activities. Not only was the time ripe, but popular feeling was already stirred in the matter. The thoughtful people of Polktown were becoming dissatisfied with the experiment. Those who had considered it of small moment in the beginning were learning differently. If Polktown was to be "boomed" through such disgraceful means as the sale of intoxicants at the only hotel, these people with suddenly awakened consciences would rather see the town lie fallow for a while longer. The gossip regarding Hopewell Drugg's supposed fall from sobriety was both untrue and unkind. That the open bar at Lem Parraday's was a real and imminent peril to Polktown, however, was a fact now undisputed by the better citizens. Janice had sounded Elder Concannon on that very Monday when she had brought him home from the Trimmins place. The old gentleman, although conservative to a fault where money was concerned--his money, or anybody's--agreed that one or two men should not be allowed to benefit at the moral expense of their fellow townsmen. That the liquor selling was causing a festering sore in the community of Polktown could not be gainsaid. Sim Howell and two other boys in their early teens had somehow obtained liquor, and had been picked up in a frightful condition on the public street by Constable Poley Cantor. The boys were made very ill by the quantity of liquor they had drunk, and although they denied that they had bought the stuff at the hotel, it was soon learned that the supply of spirits the boys had got hold of, came from Lem Parraday's bar. One of the town topers had purchased the half-gallon bottle and had hid it in a barn, fearing to take it home. The boys had found it and dared each other to taste the stuff. "It's purty bad stuff 'at Lem sells, I allow," observed Walky Dexter. "No wonder it settled them boys. It's got a 'kick' to it wuss'n Josephus had that time the swarm of bees lit on him." The town was ablaze with the story of the boys' escapade on Wednesday afternoon when Janice came back from Middletown. She stopped at Hopewell Drugg's store, which was a rendezvous for the male gossips of the town, and Walky was holding forth upon the subject uppermost in the public mind: "Them consarned lettle skeezicks--I'd ha' trounced the hull on 'em if they'd been mine." "How would you have felt, Mr. Dexter, if they really were yours?" asked Janice, who had been talking to 'Rill and Nelson Haley. "Suppose Sim Howell were your boy? How would you feel to know that, at his age, he had been intoxicated?" "Jefers-pelters!" grunted Walky. "I reckon I wouldn't git pigeon-breasted with pride over it--nossir!" "Then don't make fun," admonished the girl, severely. "It is an awful, _awful_ thing that the boys of Polktown can even get hold of such stuff to make them so ill." "That is right, Miss Janice," Hopewell said, busy with a customer. "What else, Mrs. Massey?" "That's all to-day, Hopewell. I hate to give you so big a bill, but that's all I've got," said the druggist's wife, as she handed the store-keeper a twenty-dollar gold certificate. "He, he!" chuckled Walky, "Guess Massey wants all the change in town in his own till, heh?" "That is all right, Mrs. Massey," said Hopewell, in his gentle way. "I can change it. Have to give you a gold piece--there." "What's going to be done about this liquor selling, anyway?" demanded Nelson Haley, in a much more serious mood, it would seem, than usual. "I think Janice has the right of it--although I did not think so at first. 'Live and let live,' is a good motto; but it is foolish to let a mad dog live in a community. Lem Parraday's bar is certainly doing a lot of harm to innocent people." Janice clapped her hands softly, and her eyes shone. The school teacher went on with increased warmth: "Polktown is really being vastly injured by the liquor selling. To think of those boys becoming intoxicated--one of them of my school, too----" The young man halted suddenly in this speech. In his earnestness he had forgotten that it was his school no longer. "It is a disgraceful state of affairs," 'Rill hastened to say, kindly covering Nelson's momentary confusion. But Janice beamed at the young man. "Oh, Nelson! I am delighted to hear you speak so. We are going to hold a temperance meeting--Mr. Middler and I have talked it over. And I have obtained Elder Concannon's promise to be one of those on the platform. Polktown must be waked up----" "What! _Again_? Haw! haw! haw!" burst out Walky. "Jefers-pelters, Janice Day! You've abeout give Polktown insomnia already! I sh'd say our eyes was purty well opened----" "_Yours_ are not, old fellow," said Nelson, good-naturedly, but with marked earnestness, too. "You're patronizing the barroom side of the hotel altogether more than is good for you, and if you don't know it yourself, Walky, I feel myself enough your friend to tell you so." "Nonsense! nonsense!" returned the expressman, reddening a little, yet man enough to accept personal criticism when he was so prone to criticizing other people. "What leetle I drink ain't never goin' ter hurt me." "Nor anybody else?" asked Janice, softly, for she liked Walky and was sorry to see him go wrong. "How about your example, Walky?" "Shucks! Don't talk ter me abeout 'example.' That's allus the excuse of the weak-headed. If my example was goin' ter hurt the boys, ev'ry one o' them would wanter be th' town expressman! Haw! haw! haw! I ain't never seen none o' them tumblin' over each other fer th' chance't ter cut me out on my job. An' 'cause I chaw terbaccer, is ev'ry white-headed kid in town goin' ter take up chawin' as a habit? "Jefers-pelters! I 'low if I had a boy o' m' own mebbe I'd be a lettle keerful how I used either licker, or terbaccer. But I hain't. I got only one child, an' she's a female. I reckon I ain't gotter worry about little Matildy bein' inflooenced either by her daddy's chawin', or his takin' a snifter of licker on a cold day--I snum!" "Unanswerable logic, Walky," said Nelson, with some scorn. "I've used the same myself. And it serves all right if one is utterly selfish. I thought _that_ out after Janice, here, opened my eyes." "You show me how my takin' a drink 'casionally hurts anybody or anything else, an', jefers-pelters! I'll stop it mighty quick!" exclaimed the expressman, with some heat. "I shall hold you to that, Walky," said Janice, quickly, interfering before there should be any further sharp discussion. "And," muttered Nelson, "she's as good as got you, Walky--she has that!" At the moment the door opened with a bang, and Mr. Massey plunged in. He was without a hat and wore the linen apron he always put on when he was compounding prescriptions in the back room of his shop. In his excitement his gray hair was ruffled up more like a cockatoo's topknot than usual, and his eyes seemed fairly to spark. "Hopewell Drugg!" he exclaimed, spying the storekeeper. "Was my wife just in here?" "Hul-_lo_!" ejaculated Walky Dexter. "Hopewell hasn't been sellin' her Paris green for buckwheat flour, has he? That would kinder be in your line, wouldn't it, Massey?" But the druggist paid the town humorist no attention. He hurried to the counter and leaned across it, asking his question for a second time. "Why, yes, she was here, Mr. Massey," said Hopewell, puzzled. "She changed a bill with you, didn't she?" "Jefers-pelters! was it counterfeit?" put in Walky, drawing nearer. "A twenty dollar bill--yes, sir," said the storekeeper. "Did you give her a gold piece--a ten dollar gold piece--in the change?" shot in Massey, his voice shaking. "Why--yes." "Is this it?" and the druggist slapped a gold coin down on the counter between them. Hopewell picked up the coin, turned it over in his hand, holding it close to his near-sighted eyes. Nothing could ever hurry Hopewell Drugg in speech. "Why--yes," he said again. "I guess so." "But look at the date, man!" shouted Massey. "Don't you see the date on it?" Amazed, Drugg repeated the date aloud, reading it carefully from the coin. "Why, yes, that's the date, sir," said the storekeeper. "Don't ye know that's one of the rarest issues of ten dollar coins in existence? Somethin' happened to the die: they only issued a few," Massey stammered. "Where'd you git it, Hopewell?" "Why--why--Is it valuable?" asked Hopewell. "A rare coin, you say?" "Rare!" shouted Massey. "Yes, I tell ye! It's rare. There ain't but a few in existence. Mr. Hobart told me when he brought them coins over here that night. And he pointed one of them out to me in that collection. Where did you get this one, Hopewell--where'd you get it, I say?" And on completing the demand he turned sharply and stared with his blinking, red eyes directly at Nelson Haley. CHAPTER XX SUSPICIONS "Why--why--why----" stammered Hopewell Drugg, and could say no more. The others had noted Massey's accusing glance at the schoolmaster; but not even Walky Dexter commented upon it at the moment. "Come, Hopewell!" exclaimed the druggist; "where did you get it?" "Where--where did I get the gold piece?" repeated the storekeeper, weakly. "Yes. Who paid it in to you? Hi, man! surely you don't think for a moment I accuse you of having stolen the coin collection--or having guilty knowledge of the theft?" "Oh, Mr. Massey! what are you saying?" cried the storekeeper's wife. "The coins?" whispered Hopewell. "Is that one of them?" "Jefers-pelters!" ejaculated Walky, "Here's a purty mess." "Who gave it to you?" again demanded Mr. Massey. "Why, it would be hard to say offhand," the storekeeper had sufficient wit to reply. "Oh, but Hopewell!" implored the druggist. "Don't ye see what I am after? Stir yourself, man! Perhaps we are right on the trail of the thief--this is maybe a clue," and he cast another glance at Nelson as though he feared the schoolmaster might try to slip out of the store if he did not watch him. Nelson came forward to the counter. At first he had grown very red; now he was quite pale and the look of scorn and indignation he cast upon the druggist might have withered that person at a time of less excitement. "I ran 'way up here the minute my wife gave me that gold piece, Hopewell," Massey continued. "Don't you remember how you came by it?" "He means, Mr. Drugg," broke in Nelson, "that he suspects you got it from me. Now tell him, if you please: Have I passed a gold piece over your counter since the robbery--that piece, or any other?" "Not--not to my knowledge, Mr. Haley," the storekeeper said, shaking his head slowly. "Oh, Nelson!" gasped Janice, coming nearer and touching his arm lightly. The young man's hands were clenched. He had a temper and it nearly mastered him now. But he had learned to control himself. Otherwise he could never have been as successful as he was in handling his pupils. His eyes darted lightning at the druggist; but the latter was too excited to realize Nelson Haley's mood. "This fellow has been to the postmaster to try to discover if I bought my money-order the other day with gold coin; but the postmaster obeyed the rules of the Department and refused to answer. He and the other committeemen are doing every underhanded thing possible to injure me. Cross Moore even tried to get into my rooms to search my trunk--but Mrs. Beaseley threatened him with a broom. "It doesn't surprise me that Mr. Massey should attempt in this way to find what he calls 'a clue.' The only clue he and his friends are looking for is something with which to connect me with the robbery." Janice's light touch on his arm again, stayed his wrathful words; but the druggist's freckled face glowed--red under the young man's gaze. "Wal!" he grunted, shortly, "we're bound to look after our own skins--not after yours, Mr. Haley." "I believe you!" exclaimed the schoolmaster in scorn, and turned away. "But, say, Hopewell, ye ain't answered me yet," went on Massey, again addressing the storekeeper. "Well--I couldn't say offhand----" "Great goodness, Hopewell!" cried Massey, pounding his fist upon the counter for emphasis, "you're the most exasperating critter. If this--this---- If Mr. Haley didn't give you the coin, _who did_?" "Why--I--I----" Drugg was slow enough at best. Now he was indeed very irritating. He was not the man to allow anything he said to injure another, if he could help it. "Le's see," he continued; "I've had that gold piece sev'ral days. I am sure, of course, that Mr. Haley did not give it to me. No. Come to think of it----" "Well?" gasped Mr. Massey. "I _do_ remember the transaction, now. It--it was give me as an option on my violin," said Hopewell Drugg, with growing confidence. "Yes. I remember now all about it." "What's that? Yer fiddle, Hopewell?" put in Dexter. "Ye ain't goin' ter sell yer fiddle?" "I must," Hopewell said simply. "I accepted that ten dollar gold piece and two five dollar bills, as a payment upon it." "Who from?" demanded Massey, sticking to his text, and that only. "Young Joe Bodley, of the Lake View Inn." "Joe Bodley! Why, he was abed when them coins was stolen--I know that," blurted out the druggist, very much disappointed. "Lem Parraday 'tends bar himself forenoons, for Joe's allus up till past midnight. You know that, Walky." "Ya-as--f'r sure," agreed the expressman. "But one o' these here magazine deteckatiffs might be able ter hook up Joe with them missin' coins, jes' the same. Mebbe he's a sernamb'list," suggested, Walky, with a sly grin. "A _what_?" demanded Massey, with a startled look. "He's an Odd Feller, an' a Son o' Jethro. I don't know what other lodges he b'longs to." "Jefers-pelters!" ejaculated Walky, "who's talkin' about lodges? I mean mebbe Joe walks in his sleep. He might ha' stole them coins when he was sernamb'latin' about----" The druggist snorted. "That's some o' your funny business, I s'pose, Walky Dexter. If you stood ter lose four hundred dollars you wouldn't chuckle none about it, I'm bound." "Mebbe that's so," admitted Walky. "But I dunno's I'd go around suspectin' everybody there was of stealin' that money. Caesar's wife--er was it his darter?--wouldn't 'scape suspicion in your mind, Mr. Massey." "By hickory!" exclaimed the exasperated druggist, "I'd suspect my own grandmother!" "Sure ye would--ef ye thought by so doin' ye'd escape payin' out four hundred dollars! Hay! haw! haw!" laughed the expressman. "Ye ac' right fullish, Massey. All sorts of money is passed over that bar. I seen a feller count out forty pennies there t'other day for a flask of whiskey: an' I bet he'd either robbed his baby's bank, or the missionary-fund box. Haw! haw! haw!" "You can laugh," began the druggist, looking sour enough, when Walky broke in again: "Sure I can. It's lucky I can, too. If I couldn't laff at most of the folks that live in this town, I'd be tempted ter commit sooicide--that's right! And you air one of the most amusin' of the lot, Massey. Them other committeemen run ye a clost second." "Oh! I can't stop here and fool with you all day, Walky Dexter," snapped the druggist, pretty well worked up by now. "I tell ye this gold piece is a clue----" "Mebbe," said Walky. "Mebbe 'tis a clue. But I reckon it's what them magazine deteckatifs call a blind clue. Haw! haw! haw! An' afore ye git anywhere with it, it'll proberbly go on crutches an' be deef an' dumb inter the bargain!" Massey did not look as though he enjoyed these gibes much. "I'll go down an' see Joe," he grunted. "Mebbe he'll know something about it." "I hope you do not expect to find that I spent that ten dollar gold piece at the Inn bar," said Nelson, bitterly. "Well! I'll find out how it got into Joe's hands," growled Massey. "If Joe tells you," chuckled Walky. "An' do stop for yer hat, Massey. You'll ketch yer death o' dampness." The druggist had opened a fruitful subject for speculation. Those he left behind in the store were eagerly interested. Indeed, Janice and Nelson could not fail to be excited by the occurrence, and the latter rode home with Janice in the car to talk the matter over with Uncle Jason. "Of course," the schoolmaster said, when the family was assembled in the sitting room of the old Day house, "_that_ gold piece may not be one of those stolen at all. There are plenty of ten dollar gold pieces in circulation." "Not in Polktown!" exclaimed Uncle Jason. "And if we are to believe Mr. Massey," added Janice, "there are not many ten dollar gold pieces of that particular date in existence." "We don't really know. Perhaps Massey is mistaken. We know he was excited," said Nelson. "Hold hard, now," advised Uncle Jason, "It's a breach in their walls, nevertheless." "How is that, Mr. Day?" asked the schoolmaster. "Why, don't you see?" said Uncle Jason, puffing on his pipe in some excitement. "They have opened th' way for Doubt ter stalk in," and he chuckled. "Them committeemen have been toller'ble sure--er they've _said_ they was--it was you stole the money, Mr. Haley. If they can't connect this coin with you at all, they'll sartain sure be up a stump. And they air a-breakin' down their own case against ye. I guess I'm lawyer enough ter see that." "Oh, goodness, Uncle Jason! So they will!" cried Janice. "But it does not seem reasonable that the person stealing the coins would spend one of them in Polktown," Nelson said slowly. "I dunno," reflected Mr. Day. "I never did think that a thief had any medals fer good sense--nossir! He most allus leaves some openin' so's ter git caught." "And if he spent the money at the tavern--and for liquor--of course he _couldn't_ have good sense." "I take off my hat to you on that point, Janice," laughed Nelson. "I believe you are right." "Ya-as, ain't she?" Aunt Almira said proudly. "An' our Janice has done suthin' this time that'll make Polktown put her on a ped-ped-es-tri-an----" "'Pedestal,' Maw!" giggled Marty. "Wal, never mind," said the somewhat flurried Mrs. Day. "Mr. Middler said it. Mr. Haley, ye'd oughter hear all 't Mr. Middler said about her this arternoon at the meetin' of the Ladies' Aid." "Oh, Auntie!" murmured Janice, turning very red. "Go on, Maw, and tell us," said Marty. "What did he say?" and he grinned delightedly at his cousin's rosy face. "Sing her praises, Mrs. Day--do," urged Nelson. "We know she deserves to have them sung." "Wal! I should say she did," agreed Aunt 'Mira, proudly. "It's her, the parson says, that's re'lly at the back of this temp'rance movement that's goin' ter be inaugurated right here in Polktown. Nex' Sunday he's goin' to give a sermon on temperance. He said 'at he was ashamed to feel that he--like the rest of us--was content ter drift along and _do nothin'_ 'cept ter talk against rum selling, until Janice began ter _do somethin'_." "Now, Auntie!" complained the girl again. "Wal! You started it--ye know ye did, Janice. They was talkin' about holdin' meetings, an' pledge-signin', and stirrin' up the men folks ter vote nex' Fall ter make Polktown so everlastin'ly dry that all the old topers, like Jim Narnay, an' Bruton Willis, an'--an' the rest of 'em, will jest natcherly wither up an' blow away! I tell ye, the Ladies' Aid is all worked up." "I wonder, now," said Uncle Jason, reflectively. "Ye wonder what, Jase Day?" demanded his spouse, with some warmth. "I wonder if it can be _did_?" returned Uncle Jason. "Lemme tell ye, rum sellin' an' rum drinkin' is purty well rooted in Polktown. If Janice is a-goin' ter stop th' sale of licker here, she's tackled purty consider'ble of a job, lemme tell ye." CHAPTER XXI WHAT WAS IN THE PAPER As the days passed it certainly looked as though Mr. Day was correct in his surmise about the difficulties of "Janice's job," as he called it. The girl was earnestly talking to everybody whom she knew, especially to the influential men of Polktown, regarding the disgraceful things that had happened in the lakeside hamlet since the bar had been opened at the Inn. And it was among these influential men that she found the most opposition to making Polktown "dry" instead of "wet." She had thrown down her gauntlet at Mr. Cross Moore's feet, so she troubled no more about him. Janice realized that nobody was more politically powerful in Polktown than Mr. Moore. But she believed she could not possibly obtain him on the side of prohibition, so she did not waste her strength or time in trying. Not that Mr. Cross Moore was a drinking man himself. He was never known to touch either liquor or tobacco. He was just a hard-fisted, hard-hearted, shrewd and successful country politician; and there appeared to be no soft side to his character. Unless that side was exposed to his invalid wife. And nobody outside ever caught Mr. Moore displaying tenderness in particular to her, although he was known to spend much time with her. He had fought his way up in politics and in wealth, from very poor and small beginnings. From his birth in an ancient log cabin, with parents who were as poor and miserable as the Trimminses or the Narnays to being president of the Town Council and chairman of the School Committee, was a long stride for Mr. Cross Moore--and nobody appreciated the fact more clearly than himself. Money had been the best friend he had ever had. Without Elder Concannon's streak of acquisitiveness in his character that made the good old man almost miserly, Mr. Cross Moore possessed the money-getting ability, and a faith in the creed that "Wealth is Power" that nothing had yet shaken in his long experience. For a number of years Polktown had been free of any public dram-selling, although the voters had not put themselves on record as desiring prohibition. Occasionally a more or less secret place for the selling of liquor had risen and was quickly put down. There had, in the opinion of the majority of the citizens, been no call for a drinking place, and there would probably have been no such local demand had Lem Parraday--backed by Mr. Moore, who held the mortgage on the Inn--not desired to increase the profits of that hostelry. The license was taken out that visitors to Polktown might be satisfied. There had been no local demand for the sale of liquor, as has been said. Those who made a practise of using it could obtain all they wished at Middletown, or other places near by. But once having allowed the traffic a foothold in the hamlet, it would be hard to dislodge it. John Barleycorn is fighting for his life. He has few real friends, indeed, among his consumers. No man knows better the danger of alcohol than the man who is addicted to its use--until he gets to that besotted stage where his brain is so befuddled that his opinion would scarcely be taken in a court of law on any subject. Janice Day was determined not to listen to these temporizers in Polktown who professed themselves satisfied if the license was taken away from the Lake View Inn. Something more drastic was needed than that. "The business must be voted out of town. We all must take a stand upon the question--on one side or the other," the girl had said earnestly, in discussing this point with Elder Concannon. "If you only shut up this bar, another license, located at some other point, will be asked for. Each time the fight will have to be begun again. Vote the town _dry_--that is the only way." "Well, I reckon that's true enough, my girl," said the cautious elder. "But I doubt if we can do it. They're too strong for us." "We can try," Janice urged. "You don't _know_ that the wets will win, Elder." "And if we try the question in town meeting and get beaten, we'll be worse off than we are now." "Why shall we?" Janice demanded. "And, besides, I do not believe the wets can carry the day." "I'm afraid the idea of making the town dry isn't popular enough," pursued the elder. "Why not?" "We are Vermonters," said Elder Concannon, as though that were conclusive. "We're sons of the Green Mountain Boys, and liberty is greater to us than to any other people in the world." "Including the liberty to get drunk--and the children to follow the example of the grown men?" asked Janice, tartly. "Is _that_ liberty so precious?" "That's a harsh saying, Janice," said the old man, wagging his head. "It's the truth, just the same," the girl declared, with doggedness. "You can't make the voters do what you want--not always," said Elder Concannon. "I don't want to see liquor sold here; but I think we'll be more successful if we oppose each license as it comes up." "What chance had you to oppose Lem Parraday's license?" demanded the girl, sharply. "Well! I allow that was sprung on us sudden. But Cross Moore was interested in it, too." "Somebody will always be particularly interested in the granting of the license. I believe with Uncle Jason that it's foolish to give Old Nick a fair show. He does not deserve the honors of war." More than Elder Concannon did not believe that Polktown could be carried for prohibition in Town Meeting. But election day was months ahead, and if "keeping everlastingly at it" would bring success, Janice was determined that her idea should be adopted. Mr. Middler's first sermon on temperance was in no uncertain tone. Indeed, that good man's discourses nowadays were very different from those he had been wont to give the congregation of the Union Church when Janice had first come to Polktown. In the old-fashioned phrase, Mr. Middler had "found liberty." There was nothing sensational about his sermons. He was a drab man, who still hesitated before uttering any very pronounced view upon any subject; but he thought deeply, and even that super-critic, Elder Concannon, had begun to praise the pastor of the Union Church. To start the movement for prohibition in the largest church in the community was all very well; but Janice and the other earnest workers realized that the movement must be broader than that. A general meeting was arranged in the Town House, the biggest assembly room in town, and speakers were secured who were really worth hearing. All this went on quite satisfactorily. Indeed, the first temperance rally was a pronounced success, and white ribbons became common in Polktown, worn by both young and old. But Janice's and Nelson Haley's private affairs remained in a most unsatisfactory state indeed. First of all, there was a long month to wait before Janice could expect to see another letter from daddy. It puzzled her that he was forbidden to write but once in thirty days, by an under lieutenant of the Zapatist chief, Juan Dicampa, who was Mr. Day's friend--or supposed to be, and yet the letters came to her readdressed in Juan Dicampa's hand. She watched the daily papers, too, for any word printed regarding the chieftain, and perhaps never was a brigand's well-being so heartily prayed for, as was Juan Dicampa's. Janice never forgot that her father said Dicampa stood between him and almost certain death. Considering Nelson Haley's affairs, that young man was quite impatient because they had come to no head. Nor did it seem that they were likely to soon. Nelson had secretly objected when Uncle Jason had asked Judge Little to put off for a full week the examination of Nelson in his court. The unfortunate schoolmaster felt that he wanted the thing over and the worst known immediately. But it seemed that he was neither to be acquitted at once of the crime charged against him, nor was he to be found guilty and punished. Uncle Jason was right about the turning up of the ten dollar gold piece being a blow to the accusation the School Committee had lodged against Nelson. They could not connect the young schoolmaster with the gold coin. By Uncle Jason's advice, too, Nelson had put off engaging a lawyer in Middletown to come over to defend the young man in Judge Little's court. "And well he did wait, too," declared Mr. Day, very much pleased with his own shrewdness. "_That_ would have meant a twenty dollar note. Now it don't cost Mr. Haley a cent." "What do you mean, Jase Day?" demanded Aunt Almira, for her husband announced the above at the supper table on Friday evening of that eventful week. "They ain't goin' ter send Mr. Haley to jail without a trial?" "Hear the woman, will ye?" apostrophized Uncle Jason, with disgust. "Ain't thet jes' like ye, Almiry--goin' off at ha'f cock thet-a-way? Who said anythin' about Mr. Haley goin' ter jail?" "Wal----" "He ain't goin' yet awhile, I reckon," and Mr. Day chuckled. "I told ye them fule committeemen would overreach themselves. They've withdrawn the charge." "_What_?" chorused the family, in joy and amazement. "Yessir! that's what they've done. Jedge Little sent word to me an' give me back my bond. 'Course, we could ha' demanded a hearin' an' tried ter git a clear discharge. And then ag'in--Wal! I advised Mr. Haley ter let well enough alone." "Then they know who is the thief at last?" asked Janice, quaveringly. "No." "But they know Mr. Haley never stole them coins!" cried Aunt Almira. "Wal--ef they do, they don't admit of it," drawled Uncle Jason. "What in tarnation is it, then, Dad?" demanded Marty. "Why, they've made sech a to-do over findin' that gold piece in Hope Drugg's possession, that they don't dare go on an' prosercute the schoolmaster--nossir!" "Bully!" exclaimed the thoughtless Marty. "That's all right, then." "But--but," objected Janice, with trembling lip, "that doesn't clear Nelson at all!" "It answers the puppose," proclaimed Uncle Jason. "He ain't under arrest no more, and he don't hafter pay no lawyer's fee." "Ye-es," admitted his niece, slowly. "But what is poor Nelson to do? He's still under a cloud, and he can't teach school." "And believe me!" growled Marty, "that greeny they got to teach in his place don't scu'cely know beans when the bag's untied." It was true that the four committeemen had considered it wise to withdraw their charge against Nelson Haley. Without any evidence but that of a purely presumptive character, their lawyer had advised this retreat. Really, it was a sharp trick. It left Nelson worse off, as far as disproving their charge went, than he would have been had they taken the case into court. The charge still lay against the young man in the public mind. He had no opportunity of being legally cleared of suspicion. The ancient legal supposition that a man is innocent until he is found guilty, is never honored in a New England village. He is guilty unless proved innocent. And how could Nelson prove his innocence? Only by discovering the real thief and proving _him_ guilty. The shrewd attorney hired by the four committeemen knew very well that he was not prejudicing his clients' case when he advised them to quash the warrant. But as for the discovery of the rare coin in circulation--one known to belong to the collection stolen from the schoolhouse--that injured the committeemen's cause rather than helped it, it must be confessed. Joe Bodley frankly admitted having paid over the gold piece to Hopewell Drugg, as a deposit on the fiddle. But he professed not to know how the coin had come into the till at the tavern. Joe had full charge of the cash-drawer when Mr. Parraday was not present, and he had helped himself to such money as he thought he would need when he went up town to negotiate for the purchase of the fiddle. He denied emphatically that the man who had engaged him to purchase the fiddle had given him the ten dollar gold piece. Who the purchaser of the fiddle was, however, the barkeeper declined to say. "That's my business," Joe had said, when questioned on this point. "Ya-as. I expect to take the fiddle. Hopewell's agreed to sell it to me, fair and square. If I can make a lettle spec on the side, who's business is it but my own?" When Janice heard the report of this--through Walky Dexter, of course--she was reminded of the black-haired, foreign looking man, who had been so much interested in Hopewell's violin the night she and Frank Bowman had taken the storekeeper home from the dance. "I wonder if he can be the customer that Joe Bodley speaks of? Oh, dear me!" sighed Janice. "I'm so sorry Hopewell has to sell his violin. And I'm sorry he is going to sell it this way. If that 'foxy looking foreigner,' as Mr. Bowman called him, is the purchaser of the instrument, perhaps it is worth much more than a hundred dollars. "Lottie _must_ go again and have her eyes examined. Hopewell will take her himself next month--the poor, dear little thing! Oh! if daddy's mine wasn't down there among those hateful Mexicans---- "And I wonder," added the young girl, suddenly, "what one of those real old violins is worth." She chanced to be reflecting on this subject on a Saturday afternoon near the end of the month Hopewell had allowed to Joe Bodley to find the rest of the purchase price for the violin. She had been up to the church vestry to attend a meeting of her Girls' Guild. As she passed the Public Library this thought came to her: "I'll go in and look in the encyclopaedia. _That_ ought to tell about old violins." She looked up Cremona and read about its wonderful violins made in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries by the Amati family and by Antonio Stradivari and Josef Guarnerius. It did not seem possible that Hopewell's instrument could be one of these beautifully wrought violins of the masters; yet---- "Who knows?" sighed Janice. "You read about such instruments coming to light in such queer places. And Hopewell's fiddle _looks_ awfully old. From all accounts his father must have been a musician of some importance, despite the fact that he was thought little of in Polktown by either his wife or other people. Mr. Drugg might have owned one of these famous violins--not one of the most ancient, perhaps--and told nobody here about it. Why! the ordinary Polktownite would think just as much of a two-dollar-and-a-half fiddle as of a real Stradivarius or an Amati." While she was at the task, Janice took some notes of what she read. While she was about this, Walky Dexter, who brought the mail over from Middletown, daily, came in with the usual bundle of papers for the reading desk, and the girl in charge that afternoon hastened to put the papers in the files. Major Price had presented the library with a year's subscription to a New York daily. Janice or Marty always found time to scan each page of that paper for Mexican news--especially for news of the brigand chief, Juan Dicampa. She went to the reading desk after closing and returning the encyclopaedia to its proper shelf, and spread the New York paper before her. This day she had not to search for mention of her father's friend, the Zapatist chief. Right in front of her eyes, at the top of the very first column, were these headlines: JUAN DICAMPA CAPTURED THE ZAPATIST CHIEFTAIN CAPTURED BY FEDERALS WITH 500 OF HIS FORCE AND IMMEDIATELY SHOT. MASSACRE OF HIS FOLLOWERS. CHAPTER XXII DEEP WATERS The dispatch in the New York paper was dated from a Texan city on the day before. It was brief, but seemed of enough importance to have the place of honor on the front page of the great daily. There were all the details of a night advance, a bloody attack and a fearful repulse in which General Juan Dicampa's force had been nearly wiped out. The half thousand captured with the famous guerrilla chief were reported to have been hacked to pieces when they cried for quarter, and Juan Dicampa himself was given the usual short shrift connected in most people's minds with Mexican justice. He had been shot three hours after his capture. It was an awful thing--and awful to read about. The whole affair had happened a long way from that part of Chihuahua in which daddy's mine was situated; but Janice immediately realized that the "long arm" of Dicampa could no longer keep Mr. Broxton Day from disaster, or punish those who offended the American mining man. The very worst that could possibly happen to her father, Janice thought, had perhaps already happened. That was a very sorrowful evening indeed at the old Day house on Hillside Avenue. Although Mr. Jason Day and Janice's father were half brothers only, the elder man had in his heart a deep and tender love for Broxton, or "Brocky," as he called him. He remembered Brocky as a lad--always. He felt the superiority of his years--and presumably his wisdom--over the younger man. Despite the fact that Mr. Broxton Day had early gone away from Polktown, and had been deemed very successful in point of wealth in the Middle West, Uncle Jason considered him still a boy, and his ventures in business and in mining as a species of "wild oat sowing," of which he could scarcely approve. "No," he sighed. "If Brocky had been more settled he'd ha' been better off--I snum he would! A piece o' land right here back o' Polktown--or a venture in a store, if so be he must trade--would ha' been safer for him than a slather o' mines down there among them Mexicaners." "Don't talk so--don't talk so, Jason!" sniffed Aunt Almira. "Wal--it's a fac'," her husband said vigorously. "There may be some danger attached ter store keepin' in Polktown; it's likely ter make a man a good deal of a hawg," added Uncle Jason. "But I guess the life insurance rates ain't so high as they be on a feller that's determined ter spend his time t'other side o' that Rio Grande River they tell about." "I wonder," sighed Aunt Almira, quite unconscious that she spoke aloud, "if I kin turn that old black alpaca gown I got when Sister Susie died, Jason, an' fashion it after one o' the new models?" "Heh?" grunted the startled Mr. Day, glaring at her. "Of course, we'll hafter go inter black--it's only decent. But I did fancy a plum-colored dress this Spring, with r'yal purple trimmins. I seen a pattern in the fashion sheet of the Fireside Love Letter that was re'l sweet." "What's eatin' on you, Maw?" demanded her son gruffly. "Whatcher wanter talk that way for right in front of Janice? I reckon we won't none of us put on crêpe for Uncle Brocky yet awhile," he added, stoutly. On Monday arrived another letter from Mr. Broxton Day. Of course, it was dated before the dreadful night attack which had caused the death of General Juan Dicampa and the destruction of his forces; and it had passed through that chieftain's hands and had been remailed. Janice put away the envelope, directed in the sloping, clerkly hand, and sighed. Daddy was in perfect health when he had written this last epistle and the situation had not changed. "But no knowing what has happened to poor daddy since he wrote," thought Janice. "We can know nothing about it. And another whole month to wait to learn if he is alive." The girl was quite well aware that she could expect no inquiry to be made at Washington regarding Mr. Broxton Day's fate. The administration had long since warned all American citizens to leave Mexico and to refrain from interference in Mexican affairs. Mr. Day had chosen to stay by his own, and his friends', property--and he had done this at his peril. "Oh, I wish," thought the girl, "that somebody could go down there and capture daddy, and just make him come back over the border! As Uncle Jason says, what's money when his precious life is in danger?" In almost the same breath, however, she wished that daddy could send her more money. For Lottie Drugg had gone to Boston. Her father had given over the violin to Joe Bodley, and that young speculator paid the storekeeper the remainder of the hundred dollars agreed upon. With this hundred dollars Hopewell started for Boston with Lottie, leaving his wife to take care of the store for the few days he expected to be absent. Janice went over to stay with Mrs. Drugg at night during Hopewell's absence. Perhaps it was just as well that Janice was not at home during these few days, as it gave her somebody's troubles besides her own to think about. And the Day household really, if not visibly, was in mourning for Broxton Day. Uncle Jason's face was as "long as the moral law," and Aunt 'Mira, lachrymose at best, was now continuously and deeply gloomy. Marty was the only person in the Day household able to cheer Janice in the least. 'Rill and Hopewell were in deep waters, too. Had Lottie not been such an expense, the little store on the side street would have made a very comfortable living for the three of them. They lived right up to their income, however; and so Hopewell was actually obliged to sell his violin to get Lottie to Boston. Mrs. Scattergood was frequently in the store now that her son-in-law was away. She was, of course, ready with her criticisms as to the course of her daughter and her husband. "Good Land o' Goshen!" chirped the little old woman to Janice, "didn't I allus say it was the fullishest thing ever heard of for them two to marry? Amarilly had allus airned good money teachin' and had spent it as she pleased. And Hope Drugg never did airn much more'n the salt in his johnny-cake in this store." Meanwhile she was helping herself to sugar and tea and flour and butter and other little "notions" for her own comfort. Hopewell always said that "Mother Scattergood should have the run of the store, and take what she pleased," now that he had married 'Rill; and, although the woman was not above maligning her easy-going son-in-law, she did not refuse to avail herself of his generosity. "An' there it is!" went on Mrs. Scattergood. "'Rill was fullish enough to put the money she'd saved inter a mortgage that pays her only five per cent. An' ter git th' int'rest is like pullin' eye-teeth, and I tell her she never will see the principal ag'in." Mrs. Scattergood neglected to state that she had urged her daughter to put her money in this mortgage. It was on her son's farm, across the lake at "Skunk's Hollow," as the place was classically named; and the money would never have been tied up in this way had her mother not begged and pleaded and fairly "hounded" 'Rill into letting the shiftless brother have her savings on very uncertain security. "Them two marryin'," went on Mrs. Scattergood, referring to 'Rill and Hopewell, "was for all the worl' like Famine weddin' with Poverty. And a very purty weddin' that allus is," she added with a sniff. "Neither of 'em ain't got nothin', nor never will have--'ceptin' that Hopewell's got an encumbrance in the shape of that ha'f silly child." Janice was tempted to tell the venomous old woman that she thought Hopewell's only encumbrance was his mother-in-law. "And him fiddlin' and drinkin' and otherwise wastin' his substance," croaked Mrs. Scattergood. At this Janice did utter an objection: "Now, that is not so, Mrs. Scattergood. You know very well that that story about Hopewell being a drinking man is not true." "My! is that so? Didn't I see him myself? And you seen him, too, Janice Day, comin' home that night, a wee-wawin' like a boat in a heavy sea. I guess I see what I see. And as for his fiddlin'----" "You need not be troubled on that score, at least," sighed Janice. "Poor Hopewell! He's sold his violin." Walky Dexter came into the store that same evening, chuckling over the sale of the instrument. "I wouldn't go for ter say Hopewell is a sharper," he grinned; "but mebbe he ain't so powerful innercent as he sometimes 'pears. If so, I'm sartainly glad of it." "What do you mean, Mr. Dexter?" asked 'Rill, rather sharply. "Guess Joe Bodley feels like he'd like ter know whether Hopewell done him or not. Joe's condition is suthin' like the snappin' turtle's when he cotched a-holt of Peleg Swift's red nose as he was stoopin' ter git a drink at the spring. He didn't durst ter let go while Peke was runnin' an' yellin' 'Murder!' but he was mighty sorry ter git so fur from home. Haw! haw! haw!" "What is the matter with Joe Bodley now, Walky?" asked Nelson, who was present. "Didn't he make a good thing out of the violin transaction?" "Why--haw! haw!--he dunno yit. But I b'lieve he's beginnin' ter have his doubts--like th' feller 't got holt of the black snake a-thinkin' it was a heifer's tail," chuckled Walky, whose face was very red and whose spicy breath--Joe Bodley always kept a saucer of cloves on the end of the bar--was patent to all in the store. "Joe's a good sport; he ain't squealin' none," pursued Dexter; "but there is the fiddle a-hangin' behint th' bar an' Joe's beginnin' ter look mighty sour when ye mention it to him." "Why, Mr. Dexter!" 'Rill said, in surprise, "hasn't he turned it over to the man he said he bought it for?" "Wal--not so's ye'd notice it," Walky replied, grinning fatuously. "I dunno who the feller is, or how much money he gin Joe in the fust place to help pay for the fiddle--some, of course. But if Joe paid Hopewell a hundred dollars for the thing you kin jest bet he 'spected to git ha'f as much ag'in for it. "But I reckon the feller's reneged or suthin'. Joe ain't happy about it--he! he! Mebbe on clost examination the fiddle don't 'pear ter be one o' them old masters they tell about! Haw! haw! haw!" Janice started to say something. "Why don't they look inside----" "Inside o' what?" demanded Walky, when the girl halted. "I am positive that Hopewell would never have sold it for a hundred dollars if he hadn't felt he must," broke in the storekeeper's wife, and Janice did not complete her impulsive observation. "Ye can't most allus sometimes tell!" drawled Walky. "Mebbe Hopewell had suthin' up his sleeve 'sides his wrist. Haw! haw! haw! "Shucks! talk about a fiddle bein' wuth a hunderd dollars! Jefers-pelters! I seen one a-hangin' in a shop winder at Bennington once 't looked every whit as good as Hopewell's, and as old, an' 'twas marked plain on a card, 'two dollars an' a ha'f.'" "I guess there are fiddles and _fiddles_," said 'Rill, a little tartly for her. "No," laughed Nelson. "There are fiddles and _violins_. Like the word 'vase.' If it's a cheap one, plain 'vase' is well enough to indicate it; but if it costs over twenty-five dollars they usually call it a 'vahze.' I have always believed Hopewell's instrument deserved the dignity of 'violin.'" "Wal," declared Walky. "I guess ye kin have all the dignity, _and_ the vi'lin, too, if you offer Joe what he paid for it. I don't b'lieve he'll hang off much for a profit--er--haw! haw! haw!" "I wish I were wealthy enough to buy the violin back from that fellow," whispered Janice to the schoolmaster. "Ah! I expect you do, Janice," he said softly, eyeing her with admiration. "And I wish I could give you the money to do so. It would give you more pleasure, I fancy, to hand Hopewell back his violin when he returns from Boston than almost anything we could name. Wouldn't it?" "Oh, dear me! yes, Nelson," she sighed. "I just wish I were rich." Just about this time there were a number of things Janice desired money for. She had a little left in the bank at Middletown; but she dared not use it for anything but actual necessities. No telling when daddy could send her any more for her own private use. Perhaps, never. The papers gave little news of Mexican troubles just now. Of course, Juan Dicampa being dead, there was no use watching the news columns for _his_ name. And daddy was utterly buried from her! She had no means of informing herself whether he were alive or dead. She wrote to him faithfully at least once each week; but she did not know whether the letters reached him or not. As previously advised, she addressed the outer envelope for her father's letters in care of Juan Dicampa. But that seemed a hollow mockery now. She was sending the letters to a dead man. Was it possible that her father received the missives? Could Juan Dicampa's influence, now that he was dead, compass their safety? It seemed rather a ridiculous thing to do, yet Janice continued to send them in care of the guerrilla chieftain. Indeed, Janice Day was wading in deep waters. It was very difficult for her to carry a cheerful face about during this time of severe trial. But she threw herself, whole-heartedly, into the temperance campaign, and strove to keep her mind from dwelling upon her father's peril. CHAPTER XXIII JOSEPHUS COMES OUT FOR PROHIBITION It was while Janice was staying with Mrs. Hopewell Drugg during the storekeeper's absence in Boston, that she met Sophie Narnay on the street. The child looked somewhat better as to dress, for Janice had found her some frocks weeks before, and Mrs. Narnay had utilized the gifts to the very best advantage. But the poor little thing was quite as hungry looking as ever. "Oh, Miss Janice!" she said, "I wish you'd come down to see our baby. She's ever so much worse'n she was. I guess 'twas a good thing 'at we never named her. 'Twould jest ha' been a name wasted." "Oh, dear, Sophie! is she as bad as all that?" cried Janice. "Yep," declared the child. "Can't the doctor help her?" "He's come a lot--an' he's been awful nice. Mom says she didn't know there was such good folks in the whole worl' as him an' you. But there's somethin' the matter with the baby that no doctor kin help, so he says. An' I guess he's got the rights of it," concluded Sophie, in her old-fashioned way. "I will certainly come down and see the poor little thing," promised Janice. "And your mamma and Johnnie and Eddie. Is your father at home now?" "Nop. He's up in Concannon's woods yet. They've took a new contrac'--him and Mr. Trimmins. An' mebbe it'll last all Summer. Dear me! I hope so. Then pop won't be home to drink up all the money mom earns." "I will come down to-morrow," Janice promised, for she was busy just then and could not accompany Sophie to Pine Cove. This was Saturday afternoon and Janice was on her way to the steamboat dock to see if certain freight had arrived by the _Constance Colfax_ for Hopewell Drugg's store. She was doing all she could to help 'Rill conduct the business while the storekeeper was away. During the week she had scarcely been home to the Day house at all. Marty had run the car over to the Drugg place in the morning in time for her to start for Middletown; and in the afternoon her cousin had come for the Kremlin and driven it across town to the garage again. This Saturday she would not use the car, for she wished to help 'Rill, and Marty had taken a party of his boy friends out in the Kremlin. Marty had become a very efficient chauffeur now and could be trusted, so his father said, not to try to hurdle the stone walls along the way, or to make the automobile climb the telegraph poles. "Marm" Parraday was sweeping the front porch and steps of the Lake View Inn. Although the Inn had become very well patronized now, the tavernkeeper's vigorous wife was not above doing much of her own work. "Oh, Janice Day! how be ye?" she called to the girl. "I don't see ye often," and Mrs. Parraday smiled broadly upon her. As Janice came nearer she saw that Marm Parraday did not look as she once did. Her hair had turned very gray, there were deeper lines in her weather-beaten face, and a trembling of her lips and hands made Janice's heart ache. If the Inn was doing well and Lem Parraday was prospering, his wife seemed far from sharing in the good times that appeared to have come to the Lake View Inn. The great, rambling house had been freshened with a coat of bright paint; the steps and porch and porch railings were mended; the sod was green; the flower gardens gay; the gravel of the walks and driveway freshly raked; while the round boulders flanking the paths were brilliant with whitewash. "Why!" said Janice honestly, "the old place never looked so nice before, Mrs. Parraday. You have done wonders this Spring. I hope you will have a prosperous season." Mrs. Parraday clutched the girl's arm tightly. Janice saw that her eyes seemed quite wild in their expression as she pointed a trembling finger at the gilt sign at the corner of the house, lettered with the single word: "Bar." "With that sign a-swingin' there, Janice Day?" she whispered. "You air wishin' us prosperity whilst Lem sells pizen to his feller men?" "Oh, Mrs. Parraday! I was not thinking of the liquor selling," said Janice sympathetically. "Ye'd better think of it, then," pursued the tavernkeeper's wife. "Ye'd better think of it, day and night. That's what _I_ do. I git on my knees and pray 't Lem won't prosper as long as that bar room's open. I do it 'fore Lem himself. He says I'm a-tryin' ter pray the bread-and-butter right aout'n aour mouths. He's so mad at me he won't sleep in the same room an' has gone off inter the west wing ter sleep by hisself. But I don't keer," cried Mrs. Parraday wildly. "Woe ter him that putteth the cup to his neighbor's lips! That's what _I_ tell him. 'Wine is a mocker--strong drink is ragin'.' That's what the Bible says. "An' Lem--a perfessin' member of Mr. Middler's church--an' me attendin' the same for goin' on thutty-seven years----" "But surely, Mrs. Parraday, you are not to blame because your husband sells liquor," put in Janice, sorry for the poor woman and trying to comfort her. "Why ain't I?" sharply demanded the tavern-keeper's wife. "I've been Lem's partner for endurin' all that time, too--thutty-seven years. I've been hopin' all the time we'd git ahead an' have suthin' beside a livin' here in Polktown. _I've been hungry for money_! "Like enough if I hadn't been so sharp after it, an' complained so 'cause we didn't git ahead, Lem an' Cross Moore wouldn't never got their heads together an' 'greed ter try rum-selling to make the old Inn pay a profit. "Oh, yes! I see my fault now. Oh, Lord! I see it," groaned Marm Parraday, clasping her trembling hands. "But, believe me, Janice Day, I never seen this that's come to us. We hev brought the curse of rum inter this taown after it had been free from it for years. An' we shell hafter suffer in the end--an' suffer more'n anybody else is sufferin' through our fault." She broke off suddenly and, without looking again at Janice, mounted the steps with her broom and disappeared inside the house. Janice, heartsick and almost in tears, was turning away when a figure appeared from around the corner of the tavern--from the direction of the bar-room, in fact. But Frank Bowman's smiling, ruddy face displayed no sign of _his_ having sampled Lem Parraday's bar goods. "Hullo, Janice," he said cheerfully. "I've just been having a set-to with Lem--and I don't know but he's got the best of me." "In what way?" asked the girl, brushing her eyes quickly that the young man might not see her tears. "Why, this is pay day again, you know. My men take most of the afternoon off on pay day. They are cleaning up now, in the camp house, and will be over by and by to sample some of Lem's goods," and the engineer sighed. "No, I can't keep them away from the place. I've tried. Some of them won't come; but the majority will be in that pleasing condition known as 'howling drunk' before morning." "Oh, Frank! I wish Lem would stop selling the stuff," cried Janice.' "Well, he won't. I've just been at him. I told him if he didn't close his bar at twelve o'clock tonight, according to the law, I'd appear in court against him myself. I mean to stand outside here with Constable Cantor to-night and see that the barroom is dark at twelve o'clock, anyway." "That will be a splendid move, Frank!" Janice said quickly, and with enthusiasm. "Ye-es; as far as it goes. But Lem said to me: 'Don't forget this is a hotel, Mr. Bowman, and I can serve my guests in the dining room or in their own rooms, all night long, if I want to.' And that's true." "Oh, dear me! So he can," murmured Janice. "He's got me there," grumbled young Bowman. "I never thought Lem Parraday any too sharp before; but he's learned a lot from Joe Bodley. That young fellow is about as shrewd and foxy as they make 'em." "Yet they say he did not sell Hopewell's violin at a profit, as he expected to," Janice observed. "That's right, too. And it's queer," the engineer said. "I've seen that black-haired, foxy-looking chap around town more than once since Joe bought the fiddle. Hullo! what's the matter with Dexter?" The engineer had got into step at once with Janice, and they had by this time walked down High Street to the steamboat dock. The freight-house door was open and Walky Dexter had loaded his wagon and was ready to drive up town; but Josephus was headed down the dock. The expressman was climbing unsteadily to his seat, and in reply to something said by the freight agent, he shouted: "Thas all right! thas all right! I kin turn Josephus 'round on this dock. Jefers-pelters! he could _back_ clean up town with _this_ load, I sh'd hope!" Janice had said nothing in reply to Frank Bowman's last query; but the latter added, under his breath: "Goodness! Walky is pretty well screwed-up, isn't he? I just saw him at the hotel taking what he calls a 'snifter.'" "Poor Walky!" sighed Janice. "Poor Josephus, _I_ should say," rejoined Frank quickly. The expressman was turning the old horse on the empty dock. There was plenty of room for this manoeuver; but Walky Dexter's eyesight was not what it should be. Or, perhaps he was less patient than usual with Josephus. "Git around there, Josephus!" the expressman shouted. "Back! Back! I tell ye! Consarn yer hide!" He yanked on the bit and Josephus' heavy hoofs clattered on the resounding planks. The wagon was heavily laden; and when it began to run backward, with Walky jerking on the reins, it could not easily be stopped. A rotten length of "string-piece" had been removed from one edge of the dock, and a new timber had not yet replaced it. As bad fortune would have it, Walky backed his wagon directly into this opening. "Hold on there! Where ye goin' to--ye crazy ol' critter?" bawled the freight agent. "Hul-_lo_! Jefers-pelters!" gasped the suddenly awakened Walky, casting an affrighted glance over his shoulder. "I'm a-backin' over the dump, ain't I? Gid-_ap_, Josephus!" But when once Josephus made up his slow mind to back, he did it thoroughly. He, too, expected to feel the rear wheels of the heavy farm wagon bump against the string-piece. "Gid-_ap_, Josephus!" yelled Walky again, and rose up to smite the old horse with the ends of the reins. He had no whip--nor would one have helped matters, perhaps, at this juncture. The rear wheels went over the edge of the dock. The lake was high, being swelled by the Spring floods. "Plump!" the back of the wagon plunged into the water, and, the bulk of the load being over the rear axle, the forward end shot up off the front truck. Wagon body and freight sunk into the lake. Walky, as though shot from a catapult, described a parabola over his horse's head and landed with a crash on all fours directly under Josephus' nose. Never was the old horse known to make an unnecessary motion. But the sudden flight and unexpected landing on the dock of his driver, quite excited Josephus. With a snort he scrambled backward, the front wheels went over the edge of the dock and dragged Josephus with them. Harnessed as he was, and still attached to the shafts, the old horse went into the lake with a great splash. "Hey! Whoa! Whoa, Josephus! Jefers-pelters! ain't this a purty to-do?" roared Walky, recovering his footing with more speed than grace. "Naow see that ol' critter! What's he think he's doin'--takin' a swimmin' lesson?" For Josephus, with one mighty plunge, broke free from the shafts. He struck out for the shore and reached shallow water almost immediately. Walky ran off the dock and along the rocky shore to head the old horse off and catch him. But Josephus had no intention of being so easily caught. Either he had lost confidence in his owner, or some escapade of his colthood had come to his memory. He splashed ashore, dodged the eager hand of Walky, and with tail up, nostrils expanded, mane ruffled, and dripping water as he ran, Josephus galloped up the hillside and into the open lots behind Polktown. Walky Dexter, with very serious mien, came slowly back to the dock. Janice and Frank Bowman, as well as the freight agent, had been held spellbound by these exciting incidents. Frank and the agent were now convulsed with laughter; but Janice sympathized with the woeful expressman. The latter halted on the edge of the dock, gazing from the shafts of his wagon sticking upright out of the lake to the snorting old horse up on the hill. Then he scratched his bare, bald crown, sighed, and muttered quite loud enough for Janice to hear: "Jefers-pelters! I reckon old Josephus hez come out for prohibition, an' no mistake!" CHAPTER XXIV ANOTHER GOLD PIECE Fortunately for Walky Dexter, the freight that he had backed into the lake was not perishable. It could not be greatly injured by water. With the help of neighbors and loiterers and a team of horses, the two sections of the unhung wagon and the crates of agricultural tools were hauled out of the lake. "There, Walky," said the freight agent, wiping his perspiring brow when the work was completed--for this happened on a warm day in early June. "I hope ter goodness you look where you air backin' to, nex' time." "Perhaps it will be just as well if he _backs_ where he's _looking_," suggested the young engineer, having removed his coat and aided very practically in the straightening out of Walky's affairs. This greatly pleased Janice, who had remained to watch proceedings. "Come, naow, tell the truth, Walky Dexter," drawled another of the expressman's helpers. "Was ye seein' double when ye did that trick?" There was a general laugh at this question. Walky Dexter, for once, had no ready reply. Indeed, he had been particularly serious all through the work of re-establishing his wagon on the dock. "Well, Walky, ye oughter stand treat on this, I vum!" said the freight agent. "Suthin' long, an' cool, would go mighty nice." "Isuckles is aout o' season--he! he!" chuckled another, frankly doubtful of Walky's generosity. "Lock up your freight house, Sam, and ye shall have it," declared Walky, with sudden briskness. "That's the ticket!" exclaimed the Doubting Thomas, with a quick change of tone. "Spoke like a soldier, Walky. I hope Joe's jest tapped a fresh kaig." Walky halted and scratched his head as he looked from one to another of the expectant group. "Why, ter tell the trewth," he jerked out, "I'm feelin' more like some o' thet thar acid phosphate Massey sells out'n his sody-fountain. Le's go up there." "Jest as yeou say, Walky. You're the doctor," said the freight agent, though somewhat crestfallen, as were the others, at this suggestion. "Don't count me in, Walky--though I'm obliged to you," laughed Bowman, who was getting into his coat. "Jest the same we'll paternize the drug store for this once," said the expressman, stoutly, and with gravity he led the way up the hill. Later Walky went across into the fields and tried to catch Josephus; but that wise old creature seemed suddenly to have lost confidence in his master, and refused to be won by his tones, or even the shaking of an empty oat-measure. So Walky was obliged to go home and bring down Josephus' mate to draw the freight to its destination. Janice parted from the young engineer and walked up Hillside Avenue, intending to take supper at home and afterward return to the Drugg place to spend another night or two with the storekeeper's lonely wife. She was sitting with Aunt 'Mira on the side porch before supper, while the "short bread" was baking and Uncle Jason and Marty were at the chores, when Walky Dexter drew near with his now all but empty wagon, and stopped in the lane to bring in a new cultivator Uncle Jason had sent for. "Evenin', Miz' Day," observed Walky, eyeing Aunt 'Mira and her niece askance. "Naow say it!" "Say what, Mr. Dexter?" asked Mrs. Day puzzled. "Why, I been gittin' of it all over taown," groaned the expressman. "Sarves me right, I s'pose. I see the reedic'lous side o' most things that happen ter other folks--an' they gotter right ter laff at me." "Why, what's happened ye?" asked Aunt 'Mira. "Jefers-pelters!" ejaculated Walky. "Ain't Janice tol' ye?" "Nothin' about you," Mrs. Day assured him. "She'd be a good 'un ter tell secrets to, wouldn't she?" the expressman said, with a queer twist of his face. "Ain't ye heard how I dumped m' load--an' Josephus--inter the lake?" and he proceeded to recount the accident with great relish and good humor. Marty and his father, bringing in the milk, stopped to listen and laugh. At the conclusion of the story, as Marty was pumping a pail of water for the kitchen shelf, Walky said: "Gimme a dipper o' that, boy. My mouth's so dry I can't speak the trewth. That's it--thanky!" "Ye oughtn't to be dry, Walky--comin' right past Lem Parraday's _ho_-tel," remarked Mr. Day, with a chuckle. "Wal, naow! that's what I was goin' ter speak abeout," said Walky, with sudden vigor. "Janice, here, an' me hev been havin' an argyment right along about that rum sellin' business----" "About the _drinking_, at any rate, Walky," interposed Janice, gently. "Wal--ahem!--ya-as. About the drinkin' of it, I s'pose. Yeou said, Janice, that my takin' a snifter now and then was an injury to other critters as well as to m'self." "And I repeat it," said the girl confidently. "D'ye know," jerked out Walky, with his head on one side and his eyes screwed up, "that I b'lieve Josephus agrees with ye?" "Ho! ho!" laughed Marty. "Was you fresh from Lem Parraday's bar when you backed the old feller over the dock?" "Wal, I'd had a snifter," drawled Walky, his eyes twinkling. "Anyhow, I'm free ter confess that I don't see how I could ha' done sech a fullish thing if I hadn't been drinkin'--it's a fac'! I never did b'lieve what little I took would ever hurt anybody. But poor ol' Josephus! He might ha' been drowned." "Oh, Walky!" cried Janice. "Do you see that?" "I see the light at last, Janice," solemnly said the expressman. "I guess I'd better let the stuff alone. I dunno when I'd git a hoss as good as Josephus----" "No nearer'n the boneyard," put in Marty, _sotto voce_. "Anyhow, I see my failin' sure enough. Never was so reckless b'fore in all my life," pursued Walky. "Mebbe, if I kep' on drinkin' that stuff they sell daown ter the _ho_-tel, I'd drown both m' hosses--havin' drowned m' own brains--like twin kittens, in ha'f an inch o' alcohol! Haw! haw! haw!" But despite his laughter Janice saw that Walky Dexter was much in earnest. She said to Nelson that evening, in Hopewell Drugg's store: "I consider Walky's conversion is the best thing that's happened yet in our campaign for prohibition." "A greater conquest than _mine_?" laughed the schoolmaster. "Why, Nelson," Janice said sweetly, "I know that you have only to think carefully on any subject to come to the right conclusion. But poor Walky isn't 'long' on thought, if he is on 'talk,'" and she laughed a little. It was after Sunday School the following afternoon that Janice went again to Pine Cove to see the Narnay baby. She had conversed with busy Dr. Poole for a few moments and learned his opinion of the case. It was not favorable. "Not much chance for the child," said the brusk doctor. "Never has been much chance for it. One of those children that have no right to be born." "Oh, Doctor!" murmured Janice. "A fact. It has never had enough nutrition and is going to die of plain starvation." "Can nothing be done to save it? If it had plenty of nourishment _now_?" "No use. Gone too far," growled the physician, shaking his grizzled head. "If I knew how to save it, I would; that's my job. But the best thing that can happen is its death. Ought to be a hangin' matter for poor folks to have so many children, anyway," he concluded grimly. "That sounds _awful_ to me, Dr. Poole," Janice said. "There is something awful about Nature. Nature takes care of these things, if we doctors are not allowed to." "Why! what do you mean?" "The law of the survival of the fittest is what keeps this old world of ours from being overpopulated by weaklings." Janice Day was deeply impressed by the doctor's words, and thought over them sadly as she walked down the hill toward Pine Cove. She went by the old path past Mr. Cross Moore's and saw him in his garden, wheeling his wife in her chair. Mrs. Moore was a frail woman, and because of long years of invalidism, a most exacting person. She had great difficulty in keeping a maid because of her unfortunate temper; and sometimes Mr. Moore was left alone to keep house. Nobody could suit the invalid as successfully as her husband. "Wheel me to the fence. I want to speak to that girl, Cross," commanded the wife sharply, and the town selectman did so. "Janice Day!" called Mrs. Moore, "I wish to speak to you." Janice, smiling, ran across the street and shook hands with the sick woman over the fence palings. But she barely nodded to Mr. Cross Moore. "I understand you're one o' these folks that's talking so foolish about prohibition, and about shutting up the hotel. Is that so?" demanded Mrs. Moore, her sunken, black eyes snapping. "I don't think it is foolish, Mrs. Moore," Janice said pleasantly. "And we don't wish to close the Inn--only its bar." "Same thing," decided Mrs. Moore snappishly. "Takin' the bread and butter out o' people's mouths! Ye better be in better business--all of ye. And a young girl like you! I'd like to have my stren'th and have the handling of you, Janice Day. I'd teach ye that children better be seen than heard. Where you going to, Cross Moore?" for her husband had turned the chair and was starting away from the fence. "Well--now--Mother! You've told the girl yer mind, ain't ye?" suggested Mr. Moore. "That's what you wanted to do, wasn't it?" "I wish she was my young one," said Mrs. Moore, between her teeth, "and I had the use o' my limbs. I'd make her behave herself!" "I wish she _was_ ours, Mother," Mr. Moore said kindly. "I guess we'd be mighty proud of her." Janice did not hear his words. She had walked away from the fence with flaming cheeks and tears in her eyes. She was sorry for Mrs. Moore's misfortunes and had always tried to be kind to her; but this seemed such an unprovoked attack. Janice Day craved approbation as much as any girl living. She appreciated the smiles that met her as she walked the streets of Polktown. The scowls hurt her tender heart, and the harsh words of Mrs. Moore wounded her deeply. "I suppose that is the way they both feel toward me," she thought, with a sigh. The wreck of the old fishing dock--a favorite haunt of little Lottie Drugg--was at the foot of the hill, and Janice halted here a moment to look out across it, and over the quiet cove, to the pine-covered point that gave the shallow basin its name. Lottie had believed that in the pines her echo lived, and Janice could almost hear now the childish wail of the little one as she shouted, "He-a! he-a! he-a!" to the mysterious sprite that dwelt in the pines and mocked her with its voice. Blind and very deaf, Lottie had been wont to run fearlessly out upon the broken dock and "play with her echo," as she called it. A wave of pity swept over Janice's mind and heart. Suppose Lottie should again completely lose the boon of sight. What would become of her as she grew into girlhood and womanhood? "Poor little dear! I almost fear for Hopewell to come home and tell us what the doctors say," sighed Janice. Then, even more tender memories associated with the old wharf filled Janice Day's thought. On it, in the afterglow of a certain sunset, Nelson Haley had told her how the college at Millhampton had invited him to join its faculty, and he had asked her if she approved of his course in Polktown. It had been decided between them that Polktown was a better field for his efforts in his chosen profession for the present--as the college appointment would remain open to him--and Janice was proud to think that meanwhile he had built the Polktown school up, and had succeeded so well. This spot was the scene of their first really serious talk. She wondered now if her advice had been wise, after all. Suppose Nelson had gone to Millhampton immediately when he was called there? He would have escaped this awful accusation that had been brought against him--that was sure. His situation now was most unfortunate. Having requested a vacation from his school, he was receiving no pay all these weeks that he was idle. And Janice knew the young man could ill afford this. He had been of inestimable help to Mr. Middler and the other men who had charge of the campaign for prohibition that was moving on so grandly in Polktown. But that work could not be paid for. Janice believed Nelson was now nearly penniless. His situation troubled her mind almost as much as that of her father in Mexico. She went on along the shore to the northward, toward the little group of houses at the foot of the bluff, in one of which the Narnays lived. There were the children grouped together at one end of the rickety front porch. Their mother sat on the stoop, rocking herself to and fro with the sickly baby across her lean knees, her face hopeless, her figure slouched forward and uncouth to look at. A more miserable looking party Janice Day had never before seen. And the reason for it was quickly explained to her. At the far end of the porch lay Narnay, on his back in the sun, his mouth open, the flies buzzing around his red face, sleeping off--it was evident--the night's debauch. "Oh, my dear!" moaned Janice, taking Mrs. Narnay's feebly offered hand in both her own, and squeezing it tightly. "I--I wish I might help you." "Ye can't, Miss. There ain't nothin' can be done for us--'nless the good Lord would take us all," and there was utter hopelessness and desperation in her voice. "Don't say that! It must be that there are better times in store for you all," said Janice. "With _that_?" asked Mrs. Narnay, nodding her uncombed head toward the sleeping drunkard. "Not much. Only for baby, here. There's a better time comin' for her--thanks be!" "Oh!" "Doctor says she can't live out th' Summer. She's goin' ter miss growin' up ter be what _I_ be--an' what Sophie'll proberbly be. It's a mercy. But it's hard ter part 'ith the little thing. When she is bright, she's that cunnin'!" As Janice came up the steps to sit down beside the poor woman and play with the baby, that smiled at her so wanly, the sleeping man grunted, rolled over toward them, half opened his eyes, and then rolled back again. Something rattled on the boards of the porch. Janice looked and saw several small coins that had rolled out of the man's trousers pocket. Mrs. Narnay saw them too. "Git them, Sophie--quick!" she breathed peremptorily. "Cheese it, Mom!" gasped Sophie, running on tiptoe toward her sleeping father. "He'll nigh erbout kill us when he wakes up." "I don't keer," said the woman, grabbing the coins when Sophie had collected them. "He come out o' the woods last night and he had some money an' I hadn't a cent. I sent him to git things from the store and all he brought back--and that was at midnight when they turned him out o' the hotel--was a bag of crackers and a pound of oatmeal. And he's got money! He kin kill me if he wants. I'm goin' ter have some of it--Oh, look! what's this?" Janice had almost cried out in amazement, too. One of the coins in the woman's toil-creased palm was a gold piece. "Five dollars! Mebbe he had more," Mrs. Narnay said anxiously. "Mebbe Concannon's paid 'em all some more money, and Jim's startin' in to drink it up." "Better put that money back, Mom, he'll be mad," said Sophie, evidently much alarmed. "He won't be ugly when the drink wears off and he ain't got no money to git no more," her mother said. "Jim never is." "But he'll find out youse got that gold coin. He's foxy," said the shrewd child. Janice drew forth her purse. "Let me have that five dollar gold piece," she said to Mrs. Narnay. "I'll give you five one dollar bills for it. You won't have to show but one of the bills at a time, that is sure." "That's a good idea, Miss," said the woman hopefully. "And mebbe I can make him start back for the woods again to-night. Oh, dear me! 'Tis an awful thing! I don't want him 'round--an' yet when he's sober he's the nicest man 'ith young'uns ye ever see. He jest dotes on this poor little thing," and she looked down again into the weazened face of the baby. "It is too bad," murmured Janice; but she scarcely gave her entire mind to what the woman was saying. Here was a second gold piece turned up in Polktown. And, as Uncle Jason had said, such coins were not often seen in the hamlet. Janice had more than one reason for securing the gold piece, and she determined to learn, if she could, if this one was from the collection that had been stolen from the school-house weeks before. CHAPTER XXV IN DOUBT The first of all feminine prerogatives is the right to change one's mind. Janice Day changed hers a dozen times about that five dollar gold piece. It was at last decided, however, by the young girl that she would not immediately take Nelson Haley into her confidence. Why excite hope in his mind only, perhaps, to have it crushed again? Better learn all she could about the gold coin that had rolled out of Jim Narnay's pocket, before telling the young schoolmaster. In her heart Janice did not believe Narnay was the person who had stolen the coin collection from the schoolhouse. He might have taken part in such a robbery, at night, and while under the influence of liquor; but he never would have had the courage to do such a thing by daylight and alone. Narnay might be a companion of the real criminal; but more likely, Janice believed, he was merely an accessory after the fact. This, of course, if the gold piece should prove to be one of those belonging to the collection which Mr. Haley was accused of stealing. The coin found in Hopewell Drugg's possession, and which had come to him through Joe Bodley, might easily have been put into circulation by the same person as this coin Narnay had dropped. The ten dollar coin had gone into the tavern till, and this five dollar coin would probably have gone there, too, had chance not put it in Janice Day's way. "First of all, I must discover if there was a coin like this one in that collection," the girl told herself. And early on Monday morning, on her way to the seminary, she drove around through High Street and stopped before the drugstore. Fortunately Mr. Massey was not busy and she could speak to him without delaying her trip to Middletown. "What's that?" he asked her, rumpling his topknot in his usual fashion when he was puzzled or disturbed. "List of them coins? I should say I did have 'em. The printed list Mr. Hobart left with 'em wasn't taken by--by--well, by whoever took 'em. Here 'tis." "You speak," said Janice quickly, "as though you still believed Mr. Haley to be the thief." "Well!" and again the druggist's hands went through his hair. "I dunno what to think. If he done it, he's actin' mighty funny. There ain't no warrant out for him now. He can leave town--go clean off if he wants--and nobody will, or can, stop him. And ye'd think if he had all that money he _would_ do so." "Oh, Mr. Massey!" "Well, I'm merely puttin' the case," said the druggist. "That would be sensible. He's got fifteen hundred dollars or more--if he took the coin collection. An' it ain't doin' him a 'tarnal bit of good, as I can see. I told Cross Moore last night that I believe we'd been barkin' up the wrong tree all this time." "What did he say?" cried Janice eagerly. "Well--he didn't _say_. Ye know how Cross is--as tight-mouthed as a clam with the lockjaw. But it is certain sure that we committeemen have our own troubles. Mr. Haley was a master good teacher. Ye got to hand it to him on _that_. And this feller the Board sent us ain't got no more idea of handling the school than I have of dancing the Spanish fandango. "However, that ain't the p'int. What I was speakin' of is this: Nelse Haley is either a blamed fool, or else he never stole that money," and the druggist said it with desperation in his tone. "I hear he's took a job at sixteen a month and board with Elder Concannon--and farmin' for the elder ain't a job that no boy with money _and_ right good sense would ever tackle." "Oh, Mr. Massey! Has he?" for this was news indeed to Janice. "Yep. That's what he's done. It looks like his runners was scrapin' on bare ground when he'd do that. Course, I need a feller right in this store--behind that sody-fountain. And a smart, nice appearin' one like Nelse Haley would be just the ticket--'nough sight better than Jack Besmith was. But I couldn't hire the schoolteacher, 'cause it would create so much talk. But goin' to work on a farm--and for a slave-driver like the elder--Well!" Janice understood very well why Nelson had said nothing to her about this. He was very proud indeed and did not want the girl to suspect how poor he had really become. Nelson had said he would stay in Polktown until the mystery of the stolen coin collection was cleared up--or, at least, until it was proved that he had nothing to do with it. "And the poor fellow has just about come to the end of his rope," thought Janice commiseratingly. "Oh, dear, me! Even if I had plenty of money, he wouldn't let me help him. Nelson wouldn't take money from a girl--not even borrow it!" However, Janice stuck to her text with Massey and obtained the list of the lost collection to look at. "Dunno what you want it for," said the druggist. "You going sleuthing for the thief, Miss Janice?" "Maybe," she returned, with a serious smile. "I reckon that ten dollar gold piece that Joe Bodley took in at the hotel was a false alarm." "If Joe Bodley had told you how he came by it, it would have helped some, would it not, Mr. Massey?" "Sure--it might. But he couldn't remember who gave it to him," said the man, wagging his head forlornly. "I wonder?" said Janice, using one of her uncle's favorite expressions, and so made her way out of the store and into her car again. When she had time that forenoon at the seminary she spread out the sheet on which the description of the coins was printed, and looked for the note relating to the five dollar gold piece in her possession. It was there. It was not a particularly old or a very rare coin, however. There might be others of the same date and issue in circulation. So, after all, the fact that Narnay had it proved nothing--unless she could discover how he came by it--who had given it to him. In the afternoon Janice drove home by the Upper Road and ran her car into Elder Concannon's yard. It was the busy season for the elder, for he conducted two big farms and had a number of men working for him besides his regular farm hands. He was ever ready to talk with Janice Day, however, and he came out of the paddock now, in his old dust coat and broad-brimmed hat, smiling cordially at her. "Come in and have a pot of tea with me," he said. "Ye know I'm partial to 'old maid's tipple' and Mrs. Grayson will have it ready about now, I s'pose. Stop! I'll tell her to bring it out on the side porch. It's shady there. You look like a cup would comfort you, Janice. What's the matter?" "I've lots of troubles, Elder Concannon," she said, with a sigh. "But you have your share, too, so I'll keep most of mine to myself," and she hopped out from behind the wheel of the automobile. They went to the porch and the elder halloaed in at the screen door. His housekeeper soon bustled out with the tray. She remained to take one cup of tea herself. Then, when she had gone about her duties, Janice opened the subject upon which she had come to confer. "How are those men getting on in your wood lot, Elder?" "What men--and what lot?" he asked smiling. "I don't know what lot it is; but I mean Mr. Trimmins and those others." "Oh! Trimmins and Jim Narnay and that Besmith boy?" "Yes." "Why, they are moving on slowly. This is their third job with me since Winter. Once or twice they've kicked over the traces and gone on a spree----" "That was when you paid them?" "That was when I _had_ to pay them," said the elder. "They work pretty well when they haven't any money." "Have you paid them lately, Sir?" asked Janice. "I am asking for a very good reason--not out of curiosity." "I have not. It's a month and more since they saw the color of my money. Hold on! that's not quite true," he added suddenly. "I gave Jim Narnay a dollar Saturday afternoon." "Oh!" "He came by here on his way to town. Said he was going down to see his sick baby. She _is_ sick, isn't she?" "Oh, yes," murmured Janice. "Poor little thing!" "Well, he begged for some money, and I let him have a dollar. He said he didn't want to go down home without a cent in his pocket. So I gave it to him." "Only a dollar?" repeated the girl thoughtfully. The old man's face flushed a little, and he said tartly: "I reckon _that_ did him no good. By the looks of his face when he went through here Sunday night he'd proberbly spent it all in liquor, I sh'd say." "Oh, no! I didn't mean to criticize your generosity," Janice said quickly. "I believe you gave him more than was good for him. I know that Mrs. Narnay and the children had little benefit of it." "That's what I supposed," grunted the elder. Janice sipped her tea and, looking over the edge of her cup at him, asked: "Having much trouble, Elder, with your new man?" "What new man?" snorted the old gentleman, his mouth screwed up very tightly. "I hear you have the school teacher working for you," she said. "Well! So I have," he admitted, his face suddenly broadening. "Trust you women folks for finding things out in a hurry. But he ain't teaching school up here--believe me!" "No?" "He's helping clean up my hog lot. I dunno but maybe he thinks it isn't any worse than managing Polktown boys," and the elder chuckled. But Janice was serious and she bent forward and laid a hand upon the old man's arm. "Oh, Elder Concannon! don't be too hard on him, will you?" she begged. He grinned at her. "I won't break him all up in business. We want to use him down town in these meetings we're going to hold for temperance. He's got a way of talking that convinces folks, Janice--I vow! Remember how he talked for the new schoolhouse? I haven't forgotten that, for he beat me that time. "Now; we can't afford to hire many of these outside speakers for prohibition--it costs too much to get them here. But I have told Mr. Haley to brush up his ideas, and by and by we'll have him make a speech in Polktown. He can practise on the pigs for a while," added the elder laughing; "and maybe after all they won't be so dif'rent from some of them in town that I want should hear the young man when he does spout." So Janice was comforted, and ran down town to the Drugg place in a much more cheerful frame of mind. Marty was waiting at the store for the car. There was a special reason for his being so prompt. "Look-a-here!" he called. "What d'ye know about this?" and he waved something over his head. "What is it, Marty Day?" Janice cried, looking at the small object in wonder. "Another letter from Uncle Brockey! Hooray! he ain't dead yet!" shouted the boy. His cousin seized the missive--fresh from the post-office--and gazed anxiously at the envelope. It was postmarked in one of the border towns many days after the report of Juan Dicampa's death; yet the writing on the envelope was the handwriting of the guerrilla chief. "Goodness me!" gasped Janice, "what can this mean?" She broke the seal. As usual the envelope inside was addressed to her by her father. And as she hastily scanned the letter she saw no mention made of Juan Dicampa's death. Indeed, Mr. Broxton Day wrote just as though his own situation, at least, had not changed. And he seemed to have received most of her letters. What did it mean? If the guerrilla leader had been shot by the Federals, how was it possible for her father's letters to still come along, redirected in Juan Dicampa's hand? Doubt assailed her mind--many doubts, indeed. Although Mr. Broxton Day seemed still in safety, the mystery surrounding his situation in Mexico grew mightily in Janice's mind. That evening Hopewell Drugg returned from Boston and reported that Lottie would have to remain under the doctors' care for a time. They, too, were in doubt. Nobody could yet say whether the child would lose her sight or not. CHAPTER XXVI THE TIDE TURNS These doubts, however, did not switch Janice Day's thought off the line of the stolen gold coins. The five dollar gold piece found in the possession of Jim Narnay still raised in the girl's mind a number of queries. It was a mystery, she believed, that when solved might aid in clearing Nelson Haley of suspicion. Of course, the coin she carried in her purse might not be one of those lost with the collection. That was impossible to decide at the moment. The case of the ten-dollar coin was different. That was an exceedingly rare one and in all probability nobody but a person ignorant of its value would have put it into circulation. Nevertheless, how did Jim Narnay get hold of a five dollar gold piece? Elder Concannon had not given it to him. Narnay had come to town on that Saturday evening with only a dollar of the elder's money in his pocket. Did he bring the coin with him, or did he obtain it after reaching town? And who had given the gold piece to the man, in either case? Janice would have been glad to take somebody into her confidence in this matter; but who should it be? Not her uncle or her aunt. Neither Hopewell nor 'Rill was to be thought of. And the minister, or Elder Concannon, seemed too much apart from this business to be conferred with. And Nelson---- She did go to Mrs. Beaseley's one evening, hoping that she might find Nelson there, for she had not seen the young man or heard from him since he had gone out of town to work for Elder Concannon. He was not at the widow's, and she found that good but lachrymose woman in tears. "I'm a poor lone woman--loner and lorner than I've felt since my poor, sainted Charles passed away. Oh, Janice! it seems a pitiful shame that such a one as Mr. Haley should have to go to work on a farm when he can do such a lot of other things--and better things." "I don't know about there being anything much better than farming--if one has a taste for it," said Janice cheerfully. "But an educated man--a teacher!" groaned Mrs. Beaseley. "An' I felt like he was my own son--'specially since Cross Moore and them others been houndin' him about that money. Cross Moore come to me, an' says he: 'Miz Beaseley, 'tis your duty to let me look through that young man's things when he's out. We'll either clear him or clench it on him.' "An' says I: 'Cross Moore, if you put your fut across my threshold I'll sartain sure take the broom to you--an' ye'll find _that's_ clenched, a'ready!'" "Oh, Mrs. Beaseley!" gasped Janice, yet inclined to laugh, too. "Oh, I'd ha' done it," threatened the widow, the tears still on her cheeks. "Think o' them, houndin' poor Mr. Haley so! Why! if my poor sainted Charles was alive, he'd run Cross Moore clean down to the lake--an' inter it, I expect, like Walky Dexter's boss. "And if he warn't so proud----" "_Who_ is so proud, Mrs. Beaseley?" asked Janice, who had some difficulty at times in following the good woman's line of talk. "Why--Mr. Nelson Haley. I did make him leave his books here, and ev'rything he warn't goin' ter use out there at the elder's. And I'm going to keep them two rooms jest as he had 'em, and he shell come back here whenever he likes. Money! What d' I keer whether he pays me money or not? My poor, sainted Charles left me enough to live on as long as a poor, lorn, lone creeter like me wants ter live. Nelson Haley is welcome ter stay here for the rest of his endurin' life, if he wants to, an' never pay me a cent!" "I don't suppose he could take such great favors as you offer him, Mrs. Beaseley," said Janice, kissing her. "But you are a _dear_! And I know he must appreciate what you have already done for him." "Wish't 'twas more! Wish't 'twas more!" sobbed Mrs. Beaseley. "But he'll come back ter me nex' Fall. I know! When he goes ter teachin' ag'in, he _must_ come here to live." "Oh, Mrs. Beaseley! do you think they will _let_ Nelson teach again in the Polktown school?" cried the girl. "My mercy me! D'yeou mean to tell me Cross Moore and Massey and them other men air perfect fules?" cried the widow. "Here 'tis 'most time for school to close, and they tell me the graduatin' class ain't nowhere near where they ought to be in their books. The supervisor come over himself, and he says he never seen sech ridiculous work as this Mr. Adams has done here. He--he's a _baby_! And he ought to be teachin' babies--not bein' principal of a graded school sech as Mr. Haley built up here." There were plenty of other people in Polktown who spoke almost as emphatically against the present state of the school and in Nelson's favor. Three months or so of bad management had told greatly in the discipline and in the work of the pupils. A few who would graduate from the upper grade were badly prepared, and would have to make up some of their missed studies during the Summer if they were to be accepted as pupils in their proper grade at the Middletown Academy. Mr. Haley's record up to the very day he had withdrawn from his position of teacher was as good as any teacher in the State. Indeed, several teachers from surrounding districts had met with him in Polktown once a month and had taken work and instructions from him. The State Board of Education and the supervisors had appreciated Nelson's work. Mr. Adams had been the only substitute they could give Polktown at such short notice. He was supposed to have had the same training, as Mr. Haley; but--"different men, different minds." "Ye'd oughter come over to our graduation exercises, Janice," said Marty, with a grin. "We're goin' to do ourselves proud. Hi tunket! that Adams is so green that I wonder Walky's old Josephus ain't bit him yet, thinkin' he was a wisp of grass." "Now Marty!" said his mother, admonishingly. "Fact," said her son. "Adams wants me to speak a piece on that great day. I told him I couldn't--m' lip's cracked!" and Marty giggled. "But Sally Prentiss is going to recite 'A Psalm of Life,' and Peke Ringgold is going to tell us all about 'Bozzar--Bozzar--is'--as though we hadn't been made acquainted with him ever since Hector was a pup. And Hector's a big dog now!" "You're one smart young feller, now, ain't ye?" said his father, for this information was given out by Marty at the supper table one evening just before the "great day," as he called the last session of school for that year. "I b'lieve I'm smart enough to know when to go in and keep dry," returned his son, flippantly. "But I've my doubts about Mr. Adams--for a fac'." "Nev' mind," grunted his father. "There'll be a change before next Fall." "There'd better be--or I don't go back for my last year at school. Now, you can bet on that!" cried Marty, belligerently. "Hi tunket! I'd jest as soon be taught by an old maid after all as Adams." Differently expressed, the whole town seemed of a mind regarding the school and the failure of Mr. Adams. The committee got over that ignominious graduation day as well as possible. Mr. Middler did all he could to make it a success, and he made a very nice speech to the pupils and their parents. The minister could not be held responsible in any particular for the failure of the school. Of all the committee, he had had nothing to do with Nelson Haley's resignation. As Walky Dexter said, Mr. Middler "flocked by himself." He had little to do with the other four members of the school committee. "And when it comes 'lection," said Walky, dogmatically, "there's a hull lot on us will have jest abeout as much to do with Cross Moore and Massey and old Crawford and Joe Pellett, as Mr. Middler does. Jefers-pelters! If they don't put nobody else up for committeemen, I'll vote for the taown pump!" "Ya-as, Walky," said Uncle Jason, slily. "That'd be likely, I reckon. I hear ye air purty firmly seated on the water wagon." CHAPTER XXVII THE TEMPEST Mr. Cross Moore was not a man who easily or frequently recanted before either public or private opinion. As political "boss" of the town he had often found himself opposed to many of his neighbors' wishes. Neither sharp tongue nor sharp look disturbed him--apparently, at least. Besides, Mr. Moore loved a fight "for the fight's sake," as the expression is. He had backed Lem Parraday in applying for a liquor license, to benefit his own pocket. It had to be a good reason indeed, to change Mr. Moore's attitude on the liquor selling question. The hotel barroom held great attractions for many of Cross Moore's supporters, although Mr. Moore himself seldom stepped into that part of the hotel. The politician did not trust Lem Parraday to represent him, for Lem was "no wiser than the law allows," to quote his neighbors. But Joe Bodley, the young barkeeper, imported from the city, was just the sort of fellow Cross Moore could use. And about this time Joe Bodley was in a position where his fingers "itched for the feel of money." Not other people's money, but his own. He had scraped together all he had saved, and drawn ahead on his wages, to make up the hundred dollars paid Hopewell Drugg for the violin, and---- "Seems ter me that old fiddle is what they call a sticker, ain't it, 'stead of a Straddlevarious?" chuckled Walky Dexter, referring to the instrument hanging on the wall behind Joe's head. "Oh, I'll get my money back on it," Bodley replied, with studied carelessness. "Maybe I'll raffle it off." "Not here in Polktown ye won't," said the expressman. "Yeou might as well try ter raffle off a white elephant." "Pshaw! of course not. But a fine fiddle like that--a real Cremona--will bring a pretty penny in the city. There, Walky, roll that barrel right into this corner behind the bar. I'll have to put a spigot in it soon. Might's well do it now. 'Tis the real Simon-pure article, Walky. Have a snifter?" "On the haouse?" queried Walky, briskly. "Sure. It's a tin roof," laughed Bodley. "Much obleeged ter ye," said Walky. "As yer so pressin'--don't mind if I do. A glass of sars'p'rilla'll do me." "What's the matter with you lately, Walky?" demanded the barkeeper, pouring the non-alcoholic drink with no very good grace. "Lost your taste for a man's drink?" "Sort o'," replied Walky, calmly. "Here's your health, Joe. I thought you had that fiddle sold before you went to Hopewell arter it?" "To tell ye the truth, Walky----" "Don't do it if it hurts ye, Joe. Haw! haw!" The barkeeper made a wry face and continued: "That feller I got it for, only put up a part of the price. I thought he was a square sport; but he ain't. When he got a squint at the old fiddle while Hopewell was down here playing for the dance, he was just crazy to buy it. Any old price, he said! After I got it," proceeded Joe, ruefully, "he tries to tell me it ain't worth even what I paid for it." "Wal--'tain't, is it?" said Walky, bluntly. "If it's worth a hundred it's worth a hundred and fifty," said the barkeeper doggedly. "Ya-as--_if_," murmured the expressman. "However, nobody's going to get it for any less--believe me! Least of all that Fontaine. I hate these Kanucks, anyway. I know _him_. He's trying to jew me down," said Joe, angrily. "Wal, you take it to the city," advised Walky. "You kin make yer spec on it there, ye say." There was a storm cloud drifting across Old Ti as the expressman climbed to his wagon seat and drove away from the Inn. It had been a very hot day and was now late afternoon--just the hour for a summer tempest. The tiny waves lapped the loose shingle along the lake shore. There was the hot smell of over-cured grass on the uplands. The flower beds along the hilly street which Janice Day mounted after a visit to the Narnays, were quite scorched now. This street brought Janice out by the Lake View Inn. She, too, saw the threatening cloud and hastened her steps. Sharp lightnings flickered along its lower edge, lacing it with pale blue and saffron. The mutter of the thunder in the distance was like a heavy cannonade. "Maybe it sounded so years and years ago when the British and French fought over there," Janice thought. "How these hills must have echoed to the roll of the guns! And when Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys discharged the guns in a salvo of thanksgiving over Old Ti's capture--Oh! is that you, Nelson? How you startled me." For the young schoolmaster had come up the hill behind her at a breathless gait. "We've got to hurry," he said. "That's going to be what Marty would call a 'humdinger' of a storm, Janice." "Dear me! I didn't know you were in town," she said happily. "We got the last of the hay in this morning," said the bronzed young fellow, smiling. "I helped mow away and the elder was kind enough to say that I had done well and could have the rest of the day to myself. I fancy the shrewd old fellow knew it was about to rain," and he laughed. "And how came you down this way?" Janice asked. "Followed your trail," laughed Nelson. I went in to Mrs. Beaseley's of course. "And then at Drugg's I learned you had gone down to see Jim Narnay's folks. But I didn't catch you there. Goodness, Janice, but they are a miserable lot! I shouldn't think you could bear to go there." "Oh, Nelson, the poor little baby--it is so sick and it cheers Mrs. Narnay up a little if I call on her. Besides, Sophie and the little boys are just as cunning as they can be. I can't help sympathizing with them." "Do save some of your sympathy for other folks, Janice," said Nelson, rather ruefully. "You ought to have seen the blisters I had on my hands the first week or two I was a farmer." "Oh, Nelson! That's too bad," she cried, with solicitude. "Too late!" he returned, laughing. "They are callouses now--marks of honest toil. Whew! see that dust-cloud!" The wind had ruffled the lake in a wide strip, right across to the eastern shore. Whitecaps were dancing upon the surface and the waves ran a long way up the beach. The wind, rushing ahead of the rain-cloud, caught up the dust in the streets and advanced across the town. Janice hid her face against the sleeve of her light frock. Nelson led her by the hand as the choking cloud passed over. Then the rain, in fitful gusts at first, pelted them so sharply that the girl cried out. "Oh, Nelson, it's like hail!" she gasped. A vivid flash of lightning cleaved the cloud; the thunder-peal drowned the schoolmaster's reply. But Janice felt herself fairly caught up in his arms and he mounted some steps quickly. A voice shouted: "Bring her right this way, school teacher! Right in here!" It was Lem Parraday's voice. They had mounted the side porch of the Inn and when Janice opened her eyes she was in the barroom. The proprietor of the Inn slammed to the door against the thunderous rush of the breaking storm. The rain dashed in torrents against the house. The blue flashes of electricity streaked the windows constantly, while the roll and roar of the thunder almost deafened those in the darkened barroom. Joe Bodley was behind the bar briskly serving customers. He nodded familiarly to Janice, and said: "Bad storm, Miss. Glad to see you. You ain't entirely a stranger here, eh?" "Shut up, Joe!" commanded Mr. Parraday, as Janice flushed and the schoolmaster took a threatening step toward the bar. "Oh, all right, Boss," giggled the barkeeper. "What's yours, Mister?" he asked Nelson Haley. A remarkable clap of thunder drowned Nelson's reply. Perhaps it was as well. And as the heavy roll of the report died away, they heard a series of shrieks somewhere in the upper part of the house. "What in good gracious is the matter now?" gasped Lem Parraday, hastening out of the barroom. Again a blinding flash of light lit up the room for an instant. It played upon the fat features of Joe Bodley--pallidly upon the faces of his customers. Some of them had shrunk away from the bar; some were ashamed to be seen there by Janice and the schoolmaster. The thunder discharged another rolling report, shaking the house in its wrath. The rain beat down in torrents. Janice and Nelson could not leave the place while the storm was at its height, and for the moment, neither thought of going into the dining room. Again and again the lightning flashed and the thunder broke above the tavern. It was almost as though the fury of the tempest was centered at the Lake View Inn. Janice, frankly clinging to Nelson's hand, cowered when the tempest rose to these extreme heights. Echoing another peal of thunder once again a scream from within the house startled the girl. "Oh, Nelson! what's that?" "Gee! I believe Marm Parraday's on the rampage," exclaimed Joe Bodley, with a silly smile on his face. The door from the hall flew open. In the dusky opening the woman's lean and masculine form looked wondrous tall; her hollow eyes burned with unnatural fire; her thin and trembling lips writhed pitifully. With her coming another awful flash and crash illumined the room and shook the roof tree of the Inn. "It's come! it's come!" she said, advancing into the-room. Her face shone in the pallid, flickering light of the intermittent flashes, and the loafers at the bar shrank away from her advance. "I told ye how 'twould be, Lem Parraday!" cried the tavern keeper's wife. "This is the end! This is the end!" Another stroke of thunder rocked the house. Marm Parraday fell on her knees in the sawdust and raised her clasped hands wildly. The act loosened her stringy gray hair and it fell down upon her shoulders. A wilder looking creature Janice Day had never imagined. "Almighty Father!" burst from the quivering lips of the poor woman. "Almighty Father, help us!" "She's prayin'!" gasped a trembling voice back in the shrinking crowd. "Help us and save us!" groaned the woman, her face and clasped hands uplifted. "We hear Thy awful voice. We see the flash of Thy anger. Ah!" The thunder rolled again--ominously, suddenly, while the casements rattled from its vibrations. "_Forgive Lem and these other men for what they air doin', O Lord!_" was the next phrase the startled spectators heard. "_They don't deserve Thy forgiveness--but overlook 'em!_" The Voice in the heavens answered again and drowned her supplication. One man screamed--a shrill, high neigh like that of a hurt horse. Janice caught a momentary glimpse of the pallid face of Joe Bodley shrinking below the edge of the counter. There was no leer upon his fat face now; it expressed nothing but terror. Lem Parraday entered hastily. He caught his wife by her thin shoulders just as she pitched forward. "Now, now, Marm! This ain't no way to act," he said, soothingly. The thunder muttered in the distance. Suddenly the flickering lightning seemed less threatening. As quickly as it had burst, the tempest passed away. "My jimminy! She's fainted," Lem Parraday murmured, lifting the woman in his strong arms. CHAPTER XXVIII THE ENEMY RETREATS As the Summer advanced visitors flocked to Polktown. From the larger and better known tourist resorts on the New York side of the lake, small parties had ventured into Polktown during the two previous seasons. Now news of the out-of-the-way, old-fashioned hamlet had spread; and by the end of July the Lake View Inn was comfortably filled, and most people who were willing to take "city folks" to board had all the visitors they could take care of. "But I dunno's we're goin' to make much by havin' sech a crowd," Lem Parraday complained. "With Marm sick nothin' seems ter go right. Sech waste in the kitchen I never did see! An' if I say a word, or look skew-jawed at them women, they threaten ter up an' leave me in a bunch." For Marm Parraday, by Dr. Poole's orders, had been taken out into the country to her sister's, and told to stay there till cool weather came. "If you are bound to run a rum-hole, Lem," said the plain-spoken doctor, "don't expect a woman in her condition to help you run it." Lem thought it hard--and he looked for sympathy among his neighbors. He got what he was looking for, but of rather doubtful quality. "I cartainly do wish Marm'd git well--or sumpin'," he said one day in Walky Dexter's hearing. "I don't see how a man's expected to run a _ho_-tel without a woman to help him. It beats me!" "It'll be _sumpin'_ that happens ter ye, I reckon," observed Walky, drily. "Sure as yeou air a fut high, Lem. In the Fall. Beware the Ides o' September, as the feller says. Only mebbe I ain't got jest the month right. Haw! haw! haw!" Town Meeting Day was in September. The call had already been issued, and included in it was the amendment calling for no license in Polktown--the new ordinance, if passed, to take immediate effect. The campaign for prohibition was continued despite the influx of Summer visitors. Indeed, because of them the battle against liquor selling grew hotter. Not so many "city folks" as the hotel-keeper and his friends expected, desired to see a bar in the old-fashioned community. Especially after the first pay day of the gang working on the branch of the V. C. Road. When the night was made hideous and the main street of Polktown dangerous for quiet people, by drink-inflamed fellows from the railroad construction camp, a strong protest was addressed to the Town Selectmen. There was a possibility of several well-to-do men building on the heights above the town, another season. Uncle Jason had a chance to sell his sheep-lot at such a price that his cupidity was fully aroused. But the buyer did not care to close the bargain if the town went "wet" in the Fall. Naturally Mr. Day's interest in prohibition increased mightily. The visiting young people would have liked to hold dances in Lem Parraday's big room at the Inn. But gently bred girls did not care to go where liquor was sold; so the dancing parties of the better class were held in the Odd Fellows Hall. The recurrent temperance meetings which had at first been held in the Town House had to seek other quarters early in the campaign. Mr. Cross Moore "lifted his finger" and the councilmen voted to allow the Town Hall to be used for no such purpose. However, warm weather having come, in a week the Campaign Committee obtained a big tent, set it up on the old circus grounds behind Major Price's place, somewhat curtailing the boys' baseball field, and the temperance meetings were held not only once a week, but thrice weekly. The tent meetings became vastly popular. When Nelson Haley, urged by the elder, made his first speech in the campaign, Polktown awoke as never before to the fact that their schoolmaster had a gift of oratory not previously suspected. And, perhaps as much as anything, that speech raised public opinion to a height which could be no longer ignored by the School Committee. There was an unveiled demand in the Polktown column of the Middletown Courier that Nelson Haley should be appointed teacher of the graded school for the ensuing year. Even Mr. Cross Moore saw that the time had come for him and his comrades on the committee to back down completely from their position. It was the only thing that would save them from being voted out of office at the coming election--and perhaps that would happen anyway! Before the Summer was over the request, signed by the five committeemen, came to Nelson that he take up his duties from which he had asked to be relieved in the Spring. "It's a victory!" cried Janice, happily. "Oh, Nelson! I'm _so_ glad." But there was an exceedingly bitter taste on Nelson Haley's lips. He shook his head and could not smile. The accusation against his character still stood. He had been accused of stealing the collection of coins, and he had never been able to disprove the charge. CHAPTER XXIX THE TRUTH AT LAST Daddy had not written for nearly two months. At least, no letter from him had reached Janice. The Day family in Polktown had not gone into mourning in the Spring and Aunt 'Mira gloried in a most astonishing plum-colored silk with "r'yal purple" trimmings. Nevertheless, Janice had now all but given up hope for her father's life. The uncertainty connected with his fate was very hard for the young girl to bear. She had the thought with her all the time--a picture in her mind of a man, blindfolded, his wrists fastened behind him, standing with his back against a sunburnt wall and a file of ragged, barefooted soldiers in front of him. In desperation she had written a letter addressed personally to "General Juan Dicampa," sending it to the same place to which she addressed her father's letters. She did this almost in fear of the consequences. Who would read her letter now that the guerrilla chief was dead? In the appeal Janice pleaded for her father's life and for news of him. Days passed and there was no reply. But the letter, with her name and address on the outside, was not returned to her. Broxton Day's fate was discussed no more before Janice at home. And other people who knew of her trouble, save Nelson Haley, soon forgot it. For the girl did not "wear her heart on her sleeve." As for the Druggs--Hopewell and his wife--they were so worried about little Lottie's case that they had thought for nobody's troubles but their own. The doctors would not let the child return to Polktown at present. They kept her all through the Summer, watching her case. And Lottie, at a Summer school in Boston, was enjoying herself hugely. She was not yet at an age to worry much about the future. These months of Lottie's absence were weary ones indeed for her father. Sometimes he wandered about the store quite distraught. 'Rill was worried about him. He missed the solace of his violin and refused to purchase a cheap instrument to take the place of the one he had been obliged to sacrifice. "No, Miss Janice," he told the girl once, when she spoke of this. "I could not play another instrument. I am no musician. I was never trained. It was just a natural talent that I developed, because I found in my heart a love for the old violin my father had played so many years. "Through its vibrant strings I expressed deeper feelings than I could ever express in any other way--or upon any other instrument. My lips would never have dared tell my love for 'Rill," and he smiled in his gentle way, "half so boldly as my violin told it! Ask her. She will tell you that my violin courted her--not Hopewell Drugg." "Oh, it is too, too bad!" cried Janice. "And that fellow down at Lem Parraday's hotel has never succeeded in disposing of the fiddle. I wish he would sell it back to you." "I could not buy it at the price he gave me for it," said Hopewell, sadly shaking his head. "No use to think of it." But Janice thought of it--and thought of it often. If daddy were only--only _successful_ again! That is the way she put it in her mind. If he could only send her some more money! There was many a thing Janice Day needed, or wanted. But she thought that she would deny herself much for the sake of recovering the violin for Hopewell Drugg. Meanwhile nothing further had come to light regarding the missing collection of gold coins. No third coin had been put into circulation--in Polktown, at least. The four school committeemen who were responsible for the collection had long since paid the owner out of their own pockets rather than be put to further expense in law. Jim Narnay's baby was growing weaker and weaker. The little thing had been upon the verge of passing on so many times, that her parents had grown skeptical of the doctor's prophecy--that she could not live out the Summer. It seemed to Janice, however, that the little body was frailer, the little face wanner, the tiny smile more pitiful, each time she went to Pine Cove to see the baby. Nelson, who had come back to town and again taken up his abode with the overjoyed Mrs. Beaseley while he prepared for the opening of the school, urged Janice not to go so often to the Narnay cottage. "You've enough on your heart and mind, dear girl," he said to her. "Why burden yourself with other people's troubles?" "Why--do you know, Nelson," she told him, thoughtfully, "that is one of the things I have learned of late." "What is one of the things you have learned?" "I have been learning, Nelson, that the more we share other people's burdens the less weight our own assume. It's wonderful! When I am thinking of the poor little Narnay baby, I am not thinking of daddy away down there in Mexico. And when I am worrying about little Lottie Drugg--or even about Hopewell's lost violin--I am not thinking about those awful gold coins and _who_ could have taken them----" "Here! here, young woman!" exclaimed the schoolmaster, stopping short, and shaking his head at her. "_That's_ certainly not your personal trouble." "Oh, but, Nelson," she said shyly. "Whatever troubles _you_ must trouble _me_ quite as though it were my really, truly own!" What Nelson might have said, right there on Hillside Avenue, too--even what he might have _done_!--will never be known; for here Marty suddenly appeared running wildly and shrieking at the top of his lungs for them to stop. "Hi! hi! what's the matter wi' you folks?" he yelled, his face red, and his breath fairly gasping in his throat. "I been yellin' after ye all down High Street. Look what I found!" "Looks like a newspaper, Marty," said Nelson, calmly. "_But what is in it?_" cried Janice, turning pale. Nelson seized the paper and held it open. He read rapidly: "'Great battle fought southwest of Chihuahua. Federal forces thoroughly whipped. Rebels led by the redoubtable General Juan Dicampa, whose reported death last Spring was only a ruse to blind the eyes of the Federals to his movements. At the head of a large force of regular troops and Yaqui Indians, Dicampa fell upon the headquarters of General Cesta, capturing or killing his entire command, and becoming possessed of quantities of munition and a great store of supplies. A telling blow that may bring about the secure establishment of a _de facto_ government in our ensanguined sister Republic." "Goodness me, Janice! what do you think of that? There is a lot more of it, too." "Then--if Juan Dicampa is not dead----" began the girl. "Sure, Uncle Brocky ain't dead!" finished Marty. "At least, dear girl," said Nelson, sympathetically, "there is every reason to believe that what Marty says is true." "Oh, I can hope! I can hope again!" she murmured. "And, perhaps--who knows, Nelson?--perhaps my own great trouble is going to melt away and be no more, just like last Winter's snow! Perhaps daddy is safe, and will come home." "I wish my difficulties promised as quick a solution, Janice," said Nelson, shaking his head. "But I am glad for you, my dear." Marty ran ahead with the paper to spread the good news of Uncle Brocky's probable safety. Janice and Nelson were not destined to be left to their own devices for long, however. As they slowly mounted the pleasant and shady street there was the rattle of wheels behind them, and a masterful voice said: "Whoa! That you, Schoolmaster? How-do, Janice." "Dr. Poole!" they cried, as one. "Bad news for you, Janice," said the red-faced doctor, in his brusk way. "Know you're interested in that Narnay youngster. I've just come from there. I've got to go half way to Bristol to set a feller's leg. They telephoned me. Before I could get there and back that Narnay baby is going to be out of the reach of all my pills and powders." He did not say it harshly; it was Dr. Poole's way to be brusk. "Oh, Doctor! Will it surely die?" "Not two hours to live--positively," said the physician, gathering up the reins. "I'm sorry for Jim. If the fellow is a drunkard, he is mighty tender-hearted when it comes to kids--and he's sober," he added, under his breath. "Is he there?" asked Janice, quickly. "No. Hasn't been in town for two weeks. Up in the woods somewhere. It will break him all up in business, I expect. I told you, for I didn't know but you'd want to go down and see the woman." "Thank you, Doctor," Janice said, as the chaise rattled away. But she did not turn back down the hill. Instead, she quickened her steps in the opposite direction. "Well! I am glad for once you are not going to wear yourself out with other people's troubles," said Nelson, looking sideways at her. "Poor Mr. Narnay," said the girl. "I am going after him. He must see the baby before she dies." "Janice!" "Yes. The car is all ready, I know. It will take only half an hour to run up there where those men are at work. I took Elder Concannon over there once. The road isn't bad at all at this time of year." "Do you mean you are going clear over the mountain after that drunken Narnay?" demanded Nelson, with some heat. "I am going after the baby's father, Nelson," she replied softly. "You may go, too, if you are real good," and she smiled up at him so roguishly that his frown was dissipated and he had to smile in return. They reached the Day house shortly and Janice hurried in for her dust-coat and goggles. Marty offered his own cap and "blinders," as he called them, to the schoolmaster. "You'll sure need 'em, Mr. Haley, if you go with Janice, and she's drivin'. I b'lieve she said she was in a hurry," and he grinned as he opened the garage door and ran the Kremlin out upon the gravel. The automobile moved out of the yard and took the steep hill easily. Once on the Upper Road, Janice urged the car on and they passed Elder Concannon's in a cloud of dust. The camp where the baby's father was at work was easily found. Jim Narnay seemed to know what the matter was, for he flung down the axe he was using and was first of the three at the side of the car when Janice stopped. Mr. Trimmins sauntered up, too, but the sullen Jack Besmith seemed to shrink from approaching the visitors. "I will get you there if possible in time to see the baby once more, Mr. Narnay, if you will come right along as you are," said Janice, commiseratingly, after explaining briefly their errand. "Dr. Poole told me the time was short." "Go ahead, Jim," said Trimmins, giving the man's hand a grip. "Miss Day, you sartain sure are a good neighbor." Janice turned the car as soon as Narnay was in the tonneau. The man sat clinging with one hand to the rail and with the other over his face most of the way to town. Speed had to be reduced when they turned into High Street; but Constable Poley Cantor turned his back on them as they swung around the corner into the street leading directly down to Pine Cove. Janice left Nelson in the car at the door, and ran into the cottage with the anxious father. Mrs. Narnay sat with the child on her lap, rocking herself slowly to and fro, and weeping. The children--even Sophie--made a scared little group in the corner. The woman looked up and saw her husband. "Oh, Jim!" she said. "Ain't it too bad? She--she didn't know you was comin'. She--she's jest died." Janice was crying frankly when she came out of the house a few minutes afterward. Nelson, seeing her tears, sprang out of the car and hastened up the ragged walk to meet her. "Janice!" he exclaimed and put his arm around her shoulders, stooping a little to see into her face. "Don't cry, child! Is--is it dead?" Janice nodded. Jim Narnay came to the door. His bloated, bearded face was working with emotion. He saw the tenderness with which Nelson Haley led the girl to the car. The heavy tread of the man sounded behind the young folk as Nelson helped Janice into the car, preparing himself to drive her home. "I say--I say, Miss Janice," stammered Narnay. She wiped her eyes and turned quickly, in sympathy, to the broken man. "I will surely see Mr. Middler, Mr. Narnay. And tell your wife there will be a few flowers sent down--and some other things. I--I know you will remain and be--be helpful to her, Mr. Narnay?" "Yes, I will, Miss," said Narnay. His bleared eyes gazed first on the young girl and then on Haley. "I beg your pardon, Miss," he added. "What is it, Mr. Narnay?" asked Janice. "Mebbe I'd better tell it ter schoolmaster," said the man, his lips working. He drew the back of his hand across them to hide their quivering. "I know something mebbe Mr. Haley would like to hear." "What is it, Narnay?" asked Nelson, kindly. "I--I----I hear folks says ye stole them gold coins out of the schoolhouse." Nelson looked startled, but Janice almost sprang out of her seat. "Oh, Jim Narnay!" she cried, "can you clear Mr. Haley? Do you know who did it?" "I see you--you and schoolmaster air fond of each other," said the man. "I never before went back on a pal; but you've been mighty good to me an' mine, Miss Janice, and--and I'm goin' to tell." Nelson could not speak. Janice, however, wanted to cry aloud in her delight. "I knew you could explain it all, Mr. Narnay, but I didn't know that you _would_," she said. "You knowed I could tell it?" demanded the startled Narnay. "Ever since that five dollar gold piece rolled out of your pocket--yes," she said, and no more to Narnay's amazement than to Nelson's, for she had told the schoolmaster nothing about that incident. "My mercy, Miss! Did _you_ git that five dollar coin?" demanded Narnay. "Yes. Right here on your porch. The Sunday you were at home." "And I thought I'd lost it. I didn't take the whiskey back to the boys, and Jack's been sayin' all the time I double-crossed him. Says I must ha' spent the money for booze and drunk it meself. And mebbe I would of--if I hadn't lost the five," admitted Narnay, wagging his head. "But I don't understand," broke in Nelson Haley. Janice touched his arm warningly. "But you didn't lose the ten dollar coin he gave you before that to change at Lem Parraday's, Mr. Narnay?" she said slyly. "I guess ye do know about it," said the man, eyeing Janice curiously. "I can't tell you much, I guess. Only, you air wrong about me passin' the first coin. Jack did that himself--and brought back to camp a two gallon jug of liquor." "_Jack Besmith!_" gasped the school teacher, the light dawning in his mind. "Yes," said Narnay. "Me and Trimmins has knowed it for a long time. We wormed it out o' Jack when he was drunk. But he was putting up for the stuff right along, so we didn't tell. He's got most of the money hid away somewhere--we don't know where. "He told us he saw the stuff up at Massey's the night before he stole it. He went there to try to get his job back, and seen Massey puttin' the trays of coin into his safe. He knowed they was goin' down to the schoolhouse in the mornin'. "He got drunk," pursued Narnay. "He didn't go home all night. Early in the mornin' he woke up in a shed, and went back to town. It was so early that little Benny Thread (that's Jack's brother-in-law) was just goin' into the basement door of the schoolhouse to 'tend to his fire. "Jack says he slipped in behind him and hid upstairs in a clothes closet. He thought he'd maybe break open the teacher's desk and see if there wasn't some money in it, if he didn't git a chance at them coins. But that was too easy. The committee left the coins right out open in the committee room, and Jack grabbed up the trays, took 'em to the clothes room, and emptied them into the linin' of his coat, and into his pants' pockets. They was a load! "So, after the teacher come into the buildin' and went out again, Jack put back the trays, slipped downstairs, dodged Benny and the four others, and went out at the basement door. Benny's always swore that door was locked; but it's only a spring lock and easy enough opened from inside. "That--that's all, I guess," added Narnay, in a shamefaced way. "Jack backed that load of gold coin clean out to our camp. And he hid 'em all b'fore we ever suspected he had money. We don't know now where his _cache_ is----" "Oh, Nelson!" burst out Janice, seizing both the schoolmaster's hands. "The truth at last!" "Ye--ye've been so good to us, Miss Janice," blubbered Narnay, "I couldn't bear to see the young man in trouble no longer--and you thinkin' as much as you do of him----" "If I have done anything at all for you or yours, Mr. Narnay," sobbed Janice, "you have more than repaid me--over and over again you have repaid me! Do stay here with your wife and the children. I am going to send Mr. Middler right down. Let's drive on, Nelson." The teacher started the car. "And to think," he said softly when the Kremlin had climbed the hill and struck smoother going, "that I have been opposed to your doing anything for these Narnays all the time, Janice. Yet because _you_ were kind, _I_ am saved! It--it is wonderful!" "Oh, no, Nelson. It is only what might have been expected," said Janice, softly. CHAPTER XXX MARM PARRADAY DOES HER DUTY It was on the day following the burial of the Narnay baby that the mystery surrounding Mr. Broxton Day's situation in Mexico was quite cleared up, and much to his daughter's satisfaction. Quite a packet of letters arrived for Janice--several delayed epistles, indeed, coming in a single wrapper. With them was a letter in the exact script of Juan Dicampa--that mysterious brigand chief who was Mr. Day's friend--and couched in much the same flowery phraseology as the former note Janice had received. It read: "Señorita:-- "I fain would beg thy pardon--and that most humbly--for my seeming slight of thy appeal, which reached my headquarters when your humble servant was busily engaged elsewhere. Thy father, the Senior B. Day, is safe. He has never for a moment been in danger. The embargo is now lifted and he may write to thee, sweet señorita, as he may please. The enemy has been driven from this fair section of my troubled land, and the smile of peace rests upon us as it rests upon you, dear señorita. Adios. "Faithfully thine, "JUAN DICAMPA." "Such a strangely boyish letter to come from a bloodthirsty bandit--for such they say he is. And he is father's friend," sighed Janice, showing the letter to Nelson Saley. "Oh, dear! I wish daddy would leave that hateful old mine and come home." Nevertheless, daddy's return--or his abandonment of the mine--did not appear imminent. Good news indeed was in Mr. Broxton Day's most recent letters. The way to the border for ore trains was again open. For six weeks he had had a large force of peons at work in the mine and a great amount of ore had been shipped. There was in the letter a certificate of deposit for several hundred dollars, and the promise of more in the near future. "You must be pretty short of feminine furbelows by this time. Be good to yourself, Janice," wrote Mr. Day. But his daughter, though possessing her share of feminine vanity in dress, saw first another use for a part of this unexpected windfall. She said nothing to a soul but Walky Dexter, however. It was to be a secret between them. There was so much going on in Polktown just then that Walky could keep a secret, as he confessed himself, "without half trying." "Nelson Haley openin' aour school and takin' up the good work ag'in where he laid it daown, is suthin' that oughter be noted a-plenty," declared Mr. Dexter. "And I will say for 'em, that committee reinstated him before anybody heard anythin' abeout Jack Besmith havin' stole the gold coins. "Sure enough!" went on Walky, "that's another thing that kin honestly be laid to Lem Parraday's openin' that bar at the Inn. That's where Jack got the liquor that twisted his brain, that led him astray, that made him a thief---- Jefers-pelters! sounds jest like 'The Haouse That Jack Built,' don't it? But poor Jack Besmith has sartainly built him a purty poor haouse. And there's steel bars at the winders of it--poor feller!" However, it was Nelson Haley himself who used the story of Jack Besmith most tellingly, and for the cause of temperance. As the young fellow had owned to the crime when taxed with it, and had returned most of the coins of the collection, he was recommended to the mercy of the court. But all of Polktown knew of the lad's shame. Therefore, Nelson Haley felt free to take the incident--and nobody had been more vitally interested in it than himself--for the text of a speech that he made in the big tent only a week or so before Town Meeting Day. Nelson stood up before the audience and told the story simply--told of the robbery and of how he had felt when he was accused of it, sketching his own agony and shame while for weeks and months he had not been under suspicion. "I did not believe the bad influence of liquor selling could touch _me_, because I had nothing to do with _it_," he said. "But I have seen the folly of that opinion." He pointed out, too, the present remorse and punishment of young Jack Besmith. Then he told them frankly that the blame for all--for Jack's misdeed, his own suffering, and the criminal's final situation--lay upon the consciences of the men who had made liquor selling in Polktown possible. It was an arraignment that stung. Those deeply interested in the cause of prohibition cheered Nelson to the echo. But one man who sat well back in the audience, his hat pulled over his eyes, and apparently an uninterested listener, slipped out after Nelson's talk and walked and fought his conscience the greater part of that night. Somehow the school teacher's talk--or was it Janice Day's scorn?--had touched Mr. Cross Moore in a vulnerable part. Had the Summer visitors to Polktown been voters, there would have been little doubt of the Town Meeting voting the hamlet "dry." But there seemed to be a large number of men determined not to have their liberties, so-called, interfered with. Lem Parraday's bar had become a noisy place. Some fights had occurred in the horse sheds, too. And on the nights the railroad construction gang came over to spend their pay, the village had to have extra police protection. Frank Bowman was doing his best with his men; but they were a rough set and he had hard work to control them. The engineer was a never-failing help in the temperance meetings, and nobody was more joyful over the clearing up of Nelson Haley's affairs than he. "You have done some big things these past few months, Janice Day," he said with emphasis. "Nonsense, Frank! No more than other people," she declared. "Well, I guess you have," he proclaimed, with twinkling eyes, "Just think! You've brought out the truth about that lost coin collection; you've saved Hopewell Drugg from becoming a regular reprobate--at least, so says his mother-in-law; you've converted Walky Dexter from his habit of taking a 'snifter'----" "Oh, no!" laughed Janice. "Josephus converted Walky." Save at times when he had to deliver freight or express to the hotel, the village expressman had very little business to take him near Lem Parraday's bar nowadays. However, because of that secret between Janice and himself, Walky approached the Inn one evening with the avowed purpose of speaking to Joe Bodley. Marm Parraday had returned home that very day--and she had returned a different woman from what she was when she went away. The Inn was already being conducted on a Winter basis, for most of the Summer boarders had flitted. There were few patrons now save those who hung around the bar. Walky, entering by the front door instead of the side entrance, came upon Lem and his wife standing in the hall. Marm Parraday still had her bonnet on. She was grimly in earnest as she talked to Lem--so much in earnest, indeed, that she never noticed the expressman's greeting. "That's what I've come home for, Lem Parraday--and ye might's well know it. I'm a-goin' ter do my duty--what I knowed I should have done in the fust place. You an' me have worked hard here, I reckon. But you ain't worked a mite harder nor me; and you ain't made the Inn what it is no more than I have." "Not so much, Marm--not so much," admitted her husband evidently anxious to placate her, for Marm Parraday was her old forceful self again. "I'd never oughter let rum sellin' be begun here; an' now I'm a-goin' ter end it!" "My mercy, Marm! 'Cordin' ter the way folks talk, it's goin' to be ended, anyway, when they vote on Town Meeting Day," said Lem, nervously. "I ain't dared renew my stock for fear the 'drys' might git it----" "Lem Parraday--ye poor, miser'ble worm!" exclaimed his wife. "Be you goin' ter wait till yer neighbors put ye out of a bad business, an' then try ter take credit ter yerself that ye gin it up? Wal, _I_ ain't!" cried the wife, with energy. "We're goin' aout o' business right now! I ain't in no prayin' mood terday--though I thank the good Lord he's shown me my duty an' has give me stren'th ter do it!" On the wall, in a "fire protection" frame, was coiled a length of hose, with a red painted pail and an axe. Marm turned to this and snatched down the axe from its hooks. "Why, Marm!" exploded Lem, trying to get in front of her. "Stand out o' my way, Lem Parraday!" She commanded, with firm voice and unfaltering mien. "Yeou air crazy!" shrieked the tavern keeper, dancing between her and the barroom door. "Not as crazy as I was," she returned grimly. She thrust him aside as though he were a child and strode into the barroom. Her appearance offered quite as much excitement to the loafers on this occasion as it had the day of the tempest. Only they shrank from her with good reason now, as she flourished the axe. "Git aout of here, the hull on ye!" ordered the stern woman. "Ye have had the last drink in this place as long as Lem Parraday and me keeps it. Git aout!" She started around behind the bar. Joe Bodley, smiling cheerfully, advanced to meet her. "Now, Marm! You know this ain't no way to act," he said soothingly. "This ain't no place for ladies, anyway. Women's place is in the home. This here----" "Scat! ye little rat!" snapped Marm, and made a swing at him--or so he thought--that made Joe dance back in sudden fright. "Hey! take her off, Lem Parraday! _The woman's mad!_" "You bet I'm mad!" rejoined Marm Parraday, grimly, and _smash!_ the axe went among the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Every bottle containing anything to drink was a target for the swinging axe. Joe jumped the bar, yelling wildly. He was the first out of the barroom, but most of the customers were close at his heels. "Marm! Yeou air ruinin' of us!" yelled Lem. "I'm a-savin' of us from the wrath to come!" returned the woman, sternly, and swung her axe again. The spigot flew from the whiskey barrel in the corner and the next blow of the axe knocked in the head of the barrel. The acrid smell of liquor filled the place. Not a bottle of liquor was left. The barroom of the Lake View Inn promised to be the driest place in town. Up went the axe again. Lem yelled loud enough to be heard a block: "Not that barrel, Marm! For the good Land o' Goshen! don't bust in _that_ barrel." "Why not?" demanded his breathless wife, the axe poised for the stroke. "Cause it's merlasses! If ye bust thet in, ye will hev a mess here, an' no mistake." "Jefers-pelters!" chuckled Walky Dexter, telling of it afterward, "I come away then an' left 'em erlone. But you kin take it from me--Marm Parraday is quite in her us'al form. Doc. Poole's a wonderful doctor--ain't he? "But," pursued Walky, "I had a notion that old fiddle of Hopewell's would be safer outside than it was in Marm Parraday's way, an' I tuk it down 'fore I fled the scene of de-vas-ta-tion! Haw! haw! haw! "I run inter Joe Bodley on the outside. 'Joe,' says I, 'I reskered part of your belongin's. It looks ter me as though yeou'll hev time an' to spare to take this fiddle to the city an' raffle it off. But 'fore ye do that, what'll ye take for the fiddle--lowest cash price?' "'Jest what it cost me, Walky,' says Joe. 'One hundred dollars.' "'No, Joe; it didn't cost ye that,' says I. 'I mean what _yeou_ put into it yerself. That other feller that backed out'n his bargain put in some. How much?' "Wal," pursued the expressman, "he hummed and hawed, but fin'ly he admitted that he was out only fifty dollars. 'Here's yer fifty, Joe,' says I. 'Hopewell wants his fiddle back.' "I reckon Joe needed the money to git him out o' taown. He can take a hint as quick as the next feller--when a ton of coal falls on him! Haw! haw! haw! He seen his usefulness in Polktown was kind o' passed. So he took the fifty, an' here's the vi'lin, Janice Day. I reckon ye paid abeout forty-seven-fifty too much for it; but ye told me ter git it at _any_ price." To Hopewell and 'Rill, Janice, when she presented the storekeeper with his precious fiddle, revealed a secret that she had _not_ entrusted to Walky Dexter. By throwing the strong ray of an electric torch into the slot of the instrument she revealed to their wondering eyes a peculiar mark stamped in the wood of the back of it. "That, Mr. Drugg," the girl told him, quietly, "is a mark to be found only in violins manufactured by the Amati family. The date of the manufacture of this instrument I do not know; but it is a genuine Cremona, I believe. At least, I would not sell it again, if I were you, without having it appraised first by an expert." "Oh, my dear girl!" cried 'Rill, with streaming eyes, "Hopewell won't ever sell it again. I won't let him. And we've got the joyfulest news, Janice! You have doubled our joy to-day. But already we have had a letter from Boston which says that our little Lottie is in better health than ever and that the peril of blindness is quite dissipated. She is coming home to us again in a short time." "Joyful things," as Janice said, were happening in quick rotation nowadays. With the permanent closing of the Lake View Inn bar, several of the habitués of the barroom began to straighten up. Jim Narnay had really been fighting his besetting sin since the baby's death. He had found work in town and was taking his wages home to his wife. Trimmins was working steadily for Elder Concannon. And being so far away from any place where liquor was dispensed, he was doing very well. Really, with the abrupt closing of the bar, the cause of the "wets" in Polktown rather broke down. They had no rallying point, and, as Walky said, "munitions of war was mighty scurce." "A feller can't re'lly have the heart ter _vote_ for whiskey 'nless ther's whiskey in him," said Walky, at the close of the voting on Town Meeting Day. "How about that, Cross Moore? We dry fellers have walked over ye in great shape--ain't that so?" "I admit you have carried' the day, Walky," said the selectman, grimly. "He! he! I sh'd say we had! Purty near two ter one. Wal! I thought ye said once that no man in Polktown could best ye--if ye put yer mind to it?" Cross Moore chewed his straw reflectively. "I don't consider I have been beaten by a man," he said. "No? Jefers-pelters! what d'ye call it?" blustered Walky. "I reckon I've been beaten by a girl--and an idea," said Mr. Cross Moore. "Wal," sighed Aunt 'Mira, comfortably, rocking creakingly on the front porch of the old Day house in the glow of sunset, "Polktown does seem rejoovenated, jest like Mr. Middler preached last Sunday, since rum sellin' has gone out. And it was a sight for sore eyes ter see Marm Parraday come ter church ag'in--an' that poor, miser'ble Lem taggin' after her." Janice laughed, happily. "I know that there can be nobody in town as glad that the vote went 'no license' as the Parradays." "Ya-as," agreed Aunt 'Mira, rather absently. "Did ye notice Marm's new bonnet? It looked right smart to me. I'm a-goin' ter have Miz Lynch make me one like it." "Say, Janice! want anything down town?" asked Marty coming out of the house and starting through the yard. "It doesn't seem to me as though I really wanted but one thing in all this big, beautiful world!" said his cousin, with longing in her voice. "What's that, child?" asked her aunt. "I want daddy to come home." Marty went off whistling. Aunt 'Mira rocked a while, "Ya-as," she finally said, "if Broxton Day would only let them Mexicaners alone an' come up here to Polktown----" Janice suddenly started from her chair; her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled. "Oh! here he is!" she murmured. "Here _who_ is? Who d'ye mean, Janice Day? _Not yer father?_" gasped Aunt 'Mira, staring with near-sighted eyes down the shadowy path. Janice smiled. "It's Nelson," she said softly, her gaze upon the manly figure mounting the hill. 
33790	----	Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from the September 1953 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. _This planet gave him the perfect chance to commit the perfect crime--only he couldn't remember just what it was he had committed._ [Illustration] DELAYED ACTION By CHARLES V. DeVET Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS * * * * * It was just a hunch. Johnson knew that, but his hunches had often paid off in the past, and now he waited with a big man's patience. For five hours he sat in the wooden stands, under the rumpled canvas the concessionaires had put up to protect the tourists from Marlock's yellow sun. The sun was hot and soon Johnson's clothing was marked with large soiled patches of sweat. Now and then a light breeze blew across the stands from the native section and at each breath his nostrils crinkled in protest at the acrid smell. Marlock wasn't much of a planet. Its one claim to fame was its widely advertised Nature's Moebius Strip. For eighteen months of the year--nine months of sub-zero cold, and nine months of sultry, sand-driven summer--the only outsiders to visit the planet came to buy its one export, the fur of the desert ox. But during the two months of fall and two months of spring the tourists poured in to gape at the Strip. Idly, for the hundredth time, Johnson let his gaze run over the tourists lining up for their "thrill" journey out onto the Strip. Most of them wouldn't go far; they only wanted to be able to say they'd been on it. They would build up some pretty exciting stories about it by the time they returned home. There was no sign of Johnson's man. * * * * * The party started out onto the Strip. At the first sensation of giddiness women squealed and most of them turned back. Their men came with them, secretly relieved at the excuse. Johnson watched disinterestedly until only two remained: the young couple he had designated in his mind as honeymooners. The girl had grit. Perhaps more than the young fellow with her. He was affecting bored bravado, laughing loudly as the girl hesitated, but white streaks had appeared along his jawline and across his temples as he waited his turn. The young couple had gone far enough out now so that they were in the first bend of the Strip's twisting dip. Already their bodies were leaning sharply, as the mysterious gravity of the Strip held them perpendicular with their pathway. From where he sat Johnson could read nausea on their faces. When they had followed the Strip around until they were leaning at a 35-degree angle, the girl seemed to lose her nerve. She stopped and stood gripping the guide rope with both hands. The boy said something to her, but she shook her head. He'd have to show his superiority now by going on, but it wouldn't be for much farther, Johnson was willing to wager. The boy took three more steps and paused. Then his body bent in the middle and he was sick. He'd had enough. Both turned and hurried back. The crowd of tourists, watching or waiting their turn, cheered. In a few minutes, Johnson knew, the kid would be thinking of himself as a hero. Suddenly Johnson straightened up, having spotted a new arrival, who gripped a tan brief-case tightly under one arm, buying a ticket. He had bulky shoulders and a black beard. Johnson's man had come. When he saw the bearded man go out with the next bunch to brave the Strip, Johnson rose and walked rapidly to the entrance. Elbowing his way through, with a murmured apology, he joined the waiting group. A thin-faced odd-job man opened the rope gate and they shuffled through. The group must have walked fifty paces, with the bearded man well up in front and Johnson somewhere in the middle, before Johnson's stomach sent him its first warning of unrest. Most of those ahead had stopped and Johnson threaded his way carefully past them. Another twenty-five steps and he left the others behind. All except the bearded man. He neither paused nor looked back. Johnson's stomach had drawn up into a tight knot now, and his head was beginning to feel light. There was a faint ringing in his ears. By the time he reached the end of the guide rope, nausea was creeping up from his stomach and into his throat. This was as far as it was supposed to be safe to go; the advertising literature had it that here was the point of no return. Up ahead his quarry was walking half doubled over, weaving back and forth, as though he were intoxicated. But he did not pause. Johnson turned to look back, and felt his breakfast fighting to come up. From his perspective, the ground and the spectators watching him had swung to a position almost perpendicular to him. He felt that he was about to slide off into space. A wave of vertigo swept over him, his legs folded and he fell to the ground--sicker than he had ever been before in his life. Now he knew why the man ahead never looked back. For a moment Johnson wondered whether he should give up. But, even as he debated, tenacity pulled him to his feet and forced him on. And now something new was added to his vast discomfort. Tiny twinges of pain, like small electric shocks, began shooting up his legs, increasing in intensity with each step he took. The pain built up until the rusty taste of blood in his mouth told him that he had bitten into the flesh of his lower lip. Johnson's only consolation now was the thought that the man ahead of him must be suffering worse than he. At each step the pain increased its tempo, and the sound within his head grew to a battering roar. Although he felt himself at the last frayed ends of his vitality, he managed to stagger on. Abruptly he realized that he had very nearly overtaken the man ahead. Through eyes glazed with pain, he saw the other, still standing, but swaying with agony and sickness. The man seemed to be gathering his resources for some supreme effort. He tottered ahead two more steps, threw himself forward--and disappeared! If he paused now, Johnson knew he would never be able to move again. Only will power and momentum carried him on. He stumbled and pitched forward. A searing pain traced a path through his head and he felt himself falling. * * * * * He was certain that he had never lost consciousness. The ground came up to meet him, and, with a last effort, he twisted his right shoulder inward. His cheek slid along the dirt and he lay on his side without strength. His legs pushed forward in a steady jerking movement as he fought to quiet his quivering muscles. Gradually a soothing lethargy bathed Johnson's body. His pains vanished, and the sickness left his stomach. But something was wrong--terribly wrong! Slowly he climbed to his feet and stood looking about him. He was still on the narrow arm of the Strip. On either side of him banks of white clouds, with the consistency of thick smoke, billowed and curled about the Strip--but somehow they left its pathway clear. Johnson shook his head. The wrongness, he guessed, was in his own mind. But he was unable to determine what it was. Desperately he marshalled his scattered thoughts. Nothing. He took one groping step in the direction from which he had come--and staggered back from a wall of pain as tangible as a concrete structure. He had no choice except to go forward. There was something he must do, he realized, but what was it? With the question came the answer to what was troubling him. His memory was gone! Or, at least, a great gap had been torn through it as though carved out by a giant blade. Briefly, despair threatened to overwhelm him. "Hold it!" Johnson spoke aloud, and the words sobered him. All fears became worse when not looked at. He had to bring this disaster out into the open where he could face it; where he could assay the damage. He had always taken pride in having a logical mind, with thought processes as clear and orderly as a bookkeeper's ledger. Closing his eyes, he went swiftly over his recollections, placing each in its appropriate column. When he finished he found the balance extremely unfavorable, but not hopeless. On the asset side he remembered: His name. Donald Johnson. Right now he was on Nature's Moebius Strip, on the planet, Marlock. There was some man he had been following.... The rest was on the liability side of his balance sheet. * * * * * His name remained: All other memory of his own identity was gone. There was no recollection of his reason for being on Marlock, or whom he had been following or why. That left him little with which to work. On the other hand, he mused, he might never be able to get off the Strip, so that didn't matter much. He doubted his ability to stand the stress of penetrating that electric curtain again. His body had been able to take the punishment the first time because the force had built up gradually. Going back would be something else again. Still he planned his next actions methodically--only in that way could he retain his sanity. He would go forward for one hour, he decided--he checked his wrist watch and discovered it had run down--and, if he found nothing, he would return and take his chances on getting through the curtain. At the end of ten minutes he sighted land ahead of him. When he stepped off the Strip, he stopped in amazement! Somehow the Strip had doubled back on itself, and he had returned to his starting place! To his right was the rough wooden viewing platform, with its green umbrella gone. The stands were empty, and not a person--tourist or concessionaire--was in sight. As Johnson stood, perplexed, he became aware of numbness spreading over his body. He brought up his hands and watched them slowly turn blue with cold. He realized then, in a burst of wonder, that winter had come to Marlock. Yet it had been spring when he had gone out on the Strip! * * * * * "Good God, man!" the clerk exclaimed. "Have you been out in that cold without a coat and hat? It must be thirty below." Johnson was unable to answer. He had run from the Strip--luckily he remembered its location in relation to the town--but it must have been over a mile to the hotel. Now, as he stamped his feet and beat at his sides with numbed hands, he breathed heavily, gasping great gulps of air into his tortured lungs. "Come and warm yourself," the clerk said, leading him over to a hot water radiator. Johnson made no protest. He let the heat penetrate until it scorched the skin on his back. Only after the coldness left his body and was replaced by a drowsy inertia did his attention return to the clerk. "Did you ever see me before?" Johnson asked. The clerk shook his head. "Not that I know of." Any further investigation would have to wait until the next day, Johnson decided. He was dead tired, and he had to have some sleep. "Sign me up for a room, will you?" he asked. Once up in his room, Johnson counted his money. One hundred and fifty-four credits. Enough to buy winter clothing and pay his room and board for a week. Maybe two. What would he do if he could learn nothing about himself before then? The next day Johnson left the hotel to buy warm clothes. The town's only store was a half-block down the street--as he remembered it, one of the big Interplanet Company stores. Johnson waited until the storekeeper finished with two of the hairy-eared natives before giving his order. As he paid for the purchase, he asked: "Have you ever seen me before?" The storekeeper glanced at him uneasily, and shifted his feet before answering. "Am I supposed to have?" Johnson ignored the question. "Where can I find the manager?" he asked, slipping into the heavy coat the clerk held for him. "Go up that stairway by the door," the clerk said. "You'll find him in his office." * * * * * The manager was an old man. Old and black, with the deep blackness only an Earth-born Negro possesses. But his eyes retained their youthful alertness. "Come in and sit down," he told Johnson as he looked up and saw him standing in the doorway. Johnson walked over and took the chair at the manager's left. "I've had an accident," he said, without preliminary, "and I seem to have lost my memory. Do you, by any chance, know who I am?" "Never saw you before in my life," the manager answered. "What's your name?" "Don Johnson." "Well, at least you remember something," the old man said shrewdly. "You didn't come during the last six months, if that'll help any. There've been only two ships in that time. Both the Company's. I meet all Company ships. If you came in during the tourist season I wouldn't know." "Where else could I make inquiries?" "Son," the old man said kindly, "there's three Earthmen on Marlock, that I know of--besides yourself, of course--the clerk at the hotel, my storekeeper, and myself. If you started asking questions at the hotel, you're at the end of the line now." Something in Johnson's expression caused the old man to go on. "How you fixed for money, son?" Johnson drew a deep breath. "I've got enough to last me about two weeks." The manager hesitated, and carefully surveyed the ceiling with his eyes before he spoke again. "I've always felt we Earthmen should stick together," he said. "If you want a job, I'll find something for you to do and put you on the payroll." Twenty minutes later Johnson took the job--and twenty years later he was still working for the Company. He worked for them until.... * * * * * Johnson was glad when the first twinge of fear came that it brought no panic. Instead it washed through his body, sharpening his reflexes and alerting his muscles for action. He never ceased to wonder about this faculty he had acquired for sensing the presence of danger. There was no doubt in his mind that it had come into active function through the influence of his environment. But it must have been an intrinsic part of him even before that, waiting to be activated. A moment before he had localized the source of his uneasiness--an Earthman, following perhaps fifty paces behind him. The one quick glance Johnson had allowed himself told him his follower was above average in height, and lean--with the wiry, muscular command of himself that marked him as a man capable of well-coordinated action. He fought the rising force of the next "sand-blaster" boiling in from the desert, until he was unable to take a step against it. Then he moved behind a mud-packed arm projecting from the native dwelling at his right. Every building had one of these protecting arms added on; even the concrete buildings in the newer, Earth-built section of the city conformed to the custom. The sandstorms raged intermittently on Marlock through the entire nine month summer season, and could not be ignored, either by visitors or natives. Johnson huddled against the projection, but the sand whipped around the corner and pounded at his back. Fine grains sifted through his clothing and mingled with the clammy sweat of his body. He resisted the frantic urge to scratch his itching, tormented skin, for he knew the flesh would be rubbed raw in a minute and increase the irritation to maddening proportions. As the "sand-blaster" lost its intensity, he came out from his shelter and walked away as rapidly as the diminishing force of the wind would permit. If he could reach his office before his stalker closed in, he would be safe. Suddenly a second Earthman, a short length of pipe in his right hand, came out of a doorway across the street and ran toward him. Johnson realized that here was the source of the warning his intuition had sent--not the man behind him. * * * * * For a brief instant, he weighed the situation. The man was equipped for assault, but the chances were he was interested only in robbery. Johnson could probably save himself a beating by surrendering his money without resistance. He rejected the thought. A man had to live with his pride, and his self-respect; they were more necessary than physical well-being. Setting his shoulders firmly against the wall, he waited. The man slowed to a walk when he saw his intended victim on guard. Johnson had the chance to observe him closely. He was a short and dark man, heavy of bone, with the lower half of his face thickly bearded, and sweat making a thin glistening film on his high cheekbones. Abruptly a voice said, "I wouldn't touch him if I were you." Johnson followed the gaze of his near-attacker to his left where the lean man he had noted before stood with a flat blue pistol pointed in their direction. He held the pistol like a man who knew how to use it. "A gun!" the man in the street gasped. "Are you crazy?" "Better put it away--fast," Johnson warned his ally. "If the native police catch you with that gun, you're in bad trouble." The lean man hesitated a moment, then shrugged and pocketed the gun. But he kept his hand in the pocket. "I can still use it," he said, to no one in particular. [Illustration] "Look, chum," the bearded thug grated. "You're evidently a stranger here. Let me give you a tip. If you get caught using a gun, or even having one on you, the police'll slap you in jail with an automatic sentence of ten years. An Earthman couldn't stay alive in one of their so-called jails for a year. "Now I've got a little business to attend to with Mr. Johnson, and I don't want any interference. So be smart and run along." The smile never left the stranger's face. "Right now," he said, "I am interested in seeing that Mr. Johnson remains in good health. If you take another step toward him, I'll shoot. And, if I'm not successful in evading the police afterwards, you won't be alive to know it." "You're bluffing," the bearded man said. "I...." "Let me point out something," Johnson interrupted. "Suppose he is bluffing and doesn't use the gun: The odds are still two to one against you. Are you sure you could handle both of us--even with the help of that pipe?" The man wasn't sure. He stood undecided, then his face showed black frustration. He mouthed a few choice phrases through his beard, turned and walked away. * * * * * The lean man extended his hand. "My name's Alton Hawkes." The rising whine of the next "sand-blaster" drowned out Johnson's answer. He drew his new acquaintance into the shelter of a sand-arm. As they hugged the corner, they felt a third body press against them. The musky odor, mingled with the taint of old leather, told Johnson that their companion was a native. The storm eased its force and the two Earthmen raised their heads to regard the corner's other occupant. He was a mahogany brown, almost the exact color of the ankle-length leather skirt he wore. "Man, he stinks!" Hawkes said. Their visitor spread his hairy, wide-nostriled nose into the native equivalent of a smile. His hairy ears twitched with pleasure and he swelled his chest. "Blee strong all over," he said. "Want him guard?" "Why not?" Johnson answered, glancing inquiringly at Hawkes. He slipped a coin into the extended brown palm. "Guard us until we get to the big-house section." "Pale-smells be very safe," the native said. They left their shelter as the wind died down and started toward the taller buildings of the foreign section. "I must have said the right thing when I said he stinks," Hawkes remarked. "Telling a native that is the same thing, to him, as calling him strong and virile," Johnson answered. "They admit, reluctantly, that we foreigners have some good fighting qualities, but we're still regarded as unmanly because of our weak odor. Their females wouldn't look twice at either of us." When they reached one of the few three-story structures in the city, Johnson dismissed their guard. They entered the building and walked down a short corridor and through a door lettered: DONALD H. JOHNSON District Manager Interplanets Trade Company "To be frank with you," Hawkes said, as he eased his lank body into the chair Johnson offered, "I had planned to learn more about your local activities before I introduced myself. However, I've found in the past that my first judgment of a man is usually right, so I think I'll get down to business immediately." He drew a set of papers from an inside pocket and tossed them on the desk in front of Johnson. "I'm a Company Secret Service man," he said. * * * * * Johnson raised his eyebrows, but looked at the papers without comment. He glanced up at Hawkes. "Do you recognize either of the men in the pictures?" Hawkes asked, when he saw that Johnson had no intention of speaking. Unhurriedly Johnson picked up the papers and removed a rubber binder. He pulled out two photos and laid them on the desk in front of him. "The bearded one is the man who waylaid me," he said. "Of course." "Look at both a little closer," Hawkes suggested, "and see if you don't notice something else." Johnson studied the pictures. "There's no doubt about the first," he murmured. "Evidently I'm supposed to recognize the other also." Abruptly he sat erect. "They're both the same man," he exclaimed. "Only in the second picture he's clean-shaven." Hawkes nodded. "There's a story about those two pictures," he said. "But first, let me fill you in on some background. You know that Interplanets has branches on more than a thousand worlds. Because of this widespread operation it's particularly vulnerable to robbery. But it would cost more than the Company's earnings to post adequate guards on every station. And it would be impractical to depend on the protection of the local governments, many of which are extremely primitive. On the other hand, allowing themselves to be robbed with impunity would be financial suicide." Johnson nodded. "Of course." "That," Hawkes continued, "is where the Company's Secret Service comes in. It never lets up on the effort it will make to solve a robbery and bring the perpetrators to justice. And it never quits, once it begins an investigation. That policy has proven very effective in discouraging thievery. During the Company's entire tenure there have been less than a dozen unsolved thefts--and two of them occurred right here on Marlock." "I was a clerk with the Company at the time of the second," Johnson said reminiscently. "Been with them about three years then. That must have been over twenty years ago. I...." He paused and looked down. "I remember," he said. "The picture without the beard.... That's the thief. The photograph was taken by one of the automatic cameras set up for just that purpose; we still use them. But they never found the man." "That's right," Hawkes agreed. "That robbery occurred a little over twenty years ago. And the other picture you have was taken at the time of the first robbery--approximately twenty-five years before that." "But it isn't possible," Johnson protested. "These pictures are of the same man. And there's obviously no twenty-five year spread in age between them. Unless...." "Unless one is the other's father, or a relative that resembles him very closely?" Hawkes finished. "Look at the pictures again. There's the same scar on both foreheads, the same pock-mark on the right cheek; our special section has even made measurements of the comparative sizes of the nose, ears and other features. There's no possible doubt that the pictures are of the same man." * * * * * "How do you explain it?" Johnson asked. "I don't," Hawkes replied quietly. "That's one of the things I'm here to learn. But did you notice this? The man we encountered this afternoon was not only the same as the one on those pictures: he still looks the same. We might, for the sake of argument, grant that a man's appearance would change only slightly in twenty-five years. But when you add another twenty-three on top of that--and he's still unchanged...?" "If you're certain that he's the man, why don't you arrest him?" Johnson asked. "Can we arrest a man apparently about thirty years old and accuse him of a crime committed forty-eight years ago--or even twenty-three years ago?" "I suppose not," Johnson agreed. "What do you intend to do?" "I haven't decided yet. First I'll have to learn more about the situation here. You can help me with that. Right now I'd like to know something about the native customs--especially in regard to legal matters." "Their laws are fairly simple," Johnson began. "There's no law against stealing or taking by force anything you can get away with. That sounds absurd by Earth standards, it prevents the amassing of more goods than an individual needs, and makes for fairly equitable distribution. If a native somehow acquires a sudden amount of wealth--goods, in their case--he must hire guards to protect it. Guarding is a major occupation. They do an especially big business during the tourist seasons. In time the pay of the guards will eat up any native's surplus. Either way--by loss or guard pay--the wealth is soon redistributed." "Can they even kill one another with impunity?" "No. Their laws are rigid in that respect. In the process of--relieving another of his property, they must neither break a major bone, nor inflict permanent damage. If they disobey, they are tortured to death in the public square." Hawkes asked, "Who enforces their law?" "One of the clans. Its members are supported in their duties by all the others. And there's a permanent open season on murderers. Anyone, police or civilian may revenge a victim." "How about the law against carrying firearms?" "With them, intent is tantamount to commission," Johnson replied. "Only foreigners are ever foolish enough to be caught armed. However, all native laws apply to them also. The only concession the Company has been able to force is that a foreign offender isn't tortured: He's put in jail for ten years. None ever live to come out." "I see," Hawkes said. "Interesting. However, the immediate situation is this. I've been sent here because the Service received reports that our bearded friend had made another appearance. And we believe it's safe to assume that he's here to attempt a third robbery. Right now we'll have to pass over his trick of longevity. Our problem is to catch him in the act. When do you think he'll make his play?" "It'll have to be some time before tomorrow noon," Johnson answered. "Under our setup we accept furs from the natives whenever they're brought in. But we pay off only once a year. That way I'm not burdened with guarding money the whole year around. I have well over fifty thousand credits in the safe now. And tomorrow I begin paying off." "Then we'll have to be ready for him," Hawkes said, "though I don't expect him until tonight. Probably just about the time you're ready to close. He'll need you to open the safe. I can count on your help?" Johnson nodded. * * * * * That night as they waited in his office, Johnson turned to Hawkes. "I've been giving some thought to what you told me this afternoon about the robberies. I have a theory that might account for some of the things we don't understand." "Yes?" Hawkes looked closely at Johnson. "You've probably heard of our tourist attraction called Nature's Moebius Strip? As far as we know, no one has ever gone beyond a certain point--and returned. Suppose there's a time flaw at that point--and the bearded man has somehow learned about it. Suppose anyone completing the Moebius circle, and returning, finds--say, twenty years have elapsed, while to him only a few minutes have passed?" "Go on." Hawkes leaned forward intently. [Illustration] "He makes his first holdup," Johnson continued, "and goes around the Strip. When he comes out twenty years later they're no longer looking for him. He leaves Marlock, and during the next five years he goes through the money he stole. He returns and repeats the process. This time the money lasts only three years. Now he's back to try it again. Do you see how that would tie everything up in a neat little package?" [Illustration] Hawkes smiled, as he relaxed and sat back. "A bit too neat," he said. "Also, you don't have an ounce of concrete evidence to back up your theory." "That's right. I don't," Johnson agreed. Outside the door a board creaked. Johnson glanced quickly across the room to where Hawkes sat with a pistol on his lap. Hawkes' eyebrows raised, but he made no sound. * * * * * Suddenly the door was kicked open and the black-bearded stranger stood framed in the doorway. "Raise 'em!" he barked. The gun in his hand was aimed at Johnson. The man took two steps into the room. Hawkes shifted slightly in his chair and the gunman's head swiveled in his direction. The slug from Hawkes' pistol made a small blue hole in the upper left corner of his forehead. The thug's face tipped up, shocked and unbelieving. He swayed slowly before he fell backward, his body rigid. His fur cap flew from his head as he struck the floor. "I thought we'd better play it safe," Hawkes said as he rose and walked over to the fallen man. He slipped his gun into his pocket before he bent and picked up the cap at his feet. He dropped it over the upturned face. For a long moment the silence held thin as the two men looked at each other. Hawkes stood, wiping his right hand on his trouser leg. Johnson toyed idly with the gun he had picked up from the desk in front of him. Finally Hawkes let his body sag into a chair at Johnson's right. "This is always a dirty business," he said sourly. Johnson sat down also. "Did you notice the look on his face when he saw you, and you shot him?" he asked, abstractedly turning the pistol in his hand. "Funny thing. In that half-second before he fell an article I read somewhere flashed into my mind. It seems that during the French Revolution a certain doctor got to wondering just how long a man's brain remained active after his head had been cut off. He persuaded some of his friends who were due to be guillotined to cooperate in a series of tests. Each man was to keep blinking his eyes as long as possible after his head left his body, as a sign that he was still conscious. The doctor counted as high as six winks." "Very interesting, I'm sure," Hawkes said guardedly. "But a bit morbid, isn't it?" "I was wondering," Johnson went on as though he had not heard the other, "whether he was still conscious for that instant after you shot him. And if that brought the look of surprise to his face." * * * * * Hawkes turned in his chair to face Johnson fully. "You're driving at something," he said sharply. "Get to the point." "Personally I've wondered at a few things about you myself," Johnson said. He held the gun steadily in his hand now, no longer pretending to play with it. "I told you that our second robbery occurred while I was a clerk with the Company," he went on. "They jerked me in to the Home Office, and for a while I had a pretty rough time.... You know, when I joined the Company, I was an amnesiac. I remembered my name, but that's about all...." "No, I didn't know," Hawkes muttered, growing slightly paler. "I learned then from the Home Office that I had been a member of their Secret Service some twenty years earlier. I'd been sent here to investigate the first robbery. And I had disappeared. Naturally, they had suspected me. "However, they had no evidence, and when I reappeared twenty years later they played it smart by just waiting, instead of arresting me. When the second robbery occurred, they closed in. "The only thing that saved me was the fact that tests proved my memory was really gone, and that I had told the truth--as I knew it. From the few scraps of information I retained--about being out on the Moebius Strip--they and I arrived at the theory I mentioned a short time ago. I was sent back here to wait. The Company never gives up. Remember?" "Are you insinuating that I was in cahoots with this fellow here?" Hawkes asked harshly. "I'd say it was more than an insinuation," Johnson replied. "You made several other slips. In the first place, Secret Service men are usually better informed about a situation they're investigating than you seemed to be. Also, those identification papers you showed me were faked." * * * * * The skin along the bridge of Hawkes' nose had drawn tight, and now his lips grew narrower. "In that case, why did I save you from that man this afternoon?" he asked. "And why would I shoot him now?" "Your saving me was an act, to get into my confidence. You shot him so you wouldn't have to split the loot. I figure you were in with him on the second robbery also. There had to be someone because his memory would be gone, when he came off the Strip. But you weren't satisfied. Together you decided to pull off another robbery while you were here and double the spoils. Then you decided you wanted it all for yourself and you shot him." "There's one big flaw in your reasoning," Hawkes pointed out. "How did I plan to get away? The only ships leaving here for several months belong to the Company. Do you think I'd be foolish enough to expect them to let me slip out on one of their ships?" "No. I think you intended to go out on the Strip yourself." "All right then," Hawkes countered. "You admitted that this was a two-man job. How could I protect myself when I returned, if I knew in advance that I wouldn't know who I was, let alone what I had done?" "I'll come back to that in a minute," Johnson said. "But now I'd advise you to drop your gun on the floor and give yourself up. You've got nothing to gain by carrying on the bluff. You know I'll never let you get to the Strip. And, once I put you on the ship, the Company will take over." * * * * * Hawkes' shoulders drooped. Finally he smiled raggedly. "There's no use my arguing any longer," he said. "But you've made the mistake of underestimating me, my friend. I've lost my gamble. That's all. You have nothing on me. I'm not as ignorant of native law as I may have pretended. Granted, I am carrying a lethal weapon. But I'm on private property. That's legal. I shot a man. But only in defense of my own life. His gun on the floor will prove he came in armed. So I'm clean as far as the natives are concerned. Right?" Johnson nodded. "And, as for the Company, what will they hold me for? They can't prove any connection between me and him." Hawkes indicated the man on the floor. "And this robbery--it never actually came off. Earth laws don't allow prosecution for intent. Now, where does that leave you?" Johnson stood up. "You're right--as far as you went," he said. "But, returning to your earlier question about one man pulling this job, I asked myself how I would do it, if it had to be done alone. And I found a way. You'd probably figure the same one. Now I'll take that paper in your pocket. It will serve very well as a confession." Suddenly Hawkes' right hand streaked toward a side pocket. Johnson leaned forward and brought the flat of his gun across the other's temple. As Hawkes sagged, Johnson ripped open his coat and took out a sealed envelope. He removed a sheet of paper and read: _This has been written for my own information. My name is Alton Hawkes. I have robbed the Interplanets Company and gone out on the Strip with the money. When I read this my memory will be gone and twenty years will have elapsed._ --CHARLES V. DE VET * * * * * 
61781	----	STAR PIRATE By FREDERICK ARNOLD KUMMER, JR. It meant death if Vance McClean ever returned to Ceres. Still, a cool million in palladium was tempting bait to that exiled star-pirate. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was cold that night, I remember. Cold and clear as ice. And although Ceres has no moon ... it's hardly more than a satellite itself, ... the starlight penetrated its thin, dustless atmosphere with surprising brilliance, throwing weird shadows across the icy plain. Gazing through the window of the little administration building, I could see the head of the mine shaft perhaps a mile away, and the huts of the miners, all dark, for now that the rich vein of palladium was exhausted, my uncle had dismissed our workmen. The scene was a familiar one to me. I had lived on the asteroid for fifteen years and my recollections of earth, which I had left at the age of five, were hazy, a series of dream-like impressions of big buildings, green grass, and warm yellow sunlight. I felt very lonely that evening with the workmen gone and my Uncle John at Verlis arranging for our passage to earth. Cerean Mining, Inc., had paid well these fifteen years before the vein ran out; in the huge wall-safe behind me were stacks of the gray ingots, Uncle John's profits over that period of time. Nearly a million dollars' worth in earth currency. He planned to take the precious metal back to earth with him, where its sale would bring higher prices than on Ceres, then retire on his hard-earned proceeds. He was paying my fare back to earth, gratis, and had arranged to get me a job there, which was more than many uncles would have done for a needy and lonely nephew. I was thinking about earth, as I sat there at the office desk, my back to the big wall safe, a heavy flame gun lying on the blotter before me. I was supposed to guard the palladium until Uncle John returned, though this was a mere formality. Ceres was too small for anyone to get very far, and all the passenger liners leaving Verlis were thoroughly checked. And even supposing some thief were to overcome me, force the huge, triply-reinforced safe, he would find it hard, even in Ceres' light gravity, to carry off a million dollars' worth of palladium. So I wasn't greatly worried about playing guard; my thoughts were busy trying to visualize earth, planning what I would do there when I arrived. About eleven o'clock, earth-time, however, I awoke with a start from my day-dreaming. A light ... a lurid flickering light ... was dancing through the big glassex window. I leaped to my feet, gripping the flame gun, and peered out. A sleek, silvery little space-ship was settling down on the plain outside! As I watched the ship ride in to land on its columns of fire, a vague uneasiness filled me. Vessels weren't accustomed to put in at the Cerean Mining field; especially swift little craft that were neither slovenly freighters nor stately liners. Gun in hand, I stepped to the door of the administration building. * * * * * The ship had landed as lightly as a snowflake on the barren plain, switched off her rockets. The air-lock clanged open and two bulky figures in asbestoid jumpers swung down; so hot was the rock from the rocket exhausts that their lead-soled gravity shoes left silvery patches as they strode toward the administration building. One of the men, to judge from his build, was a Jovian, huge, squat, mighty-thewed; the other, a slender earthman, his face hidden by the hood that protected him from the cold. I waited until they were within twenty feet of me, then raised the flame-gun. "Stop where you are!" I said curtly. "This is private property ... the property of the Cerean Mining Company. What do you want?" The earthman paused, studying me as I stood there in the light that streamed from the doorway. "So big," I heard him mutter as though to himself. "Who'd have thought it! Eleven years! It's passed quickly ... for some." This didn't make much sense, but it wasn't the meaning of his words that struck me. It was his voice. There was something about the voice that sounded a familiar chord in the back of my mind. For a moment I tried to puzzle out the disturbing memories but without much success. Then, shaking off the strange uneasiness, I raised the gun once more. "Stay where you are! Another step and I'll shoot!" The earthman continued to move toward me, the big Jovian in his wake. "If you must shoot, Steve," he said quietly, "I suppose there's no help for it. You'd regret it, though, I think." Again the puzzling familiarity of that voice! Where had I heard those calm, bitterly mocking tones before? And how did he know my name? Was this some trick to force an entrance into the administration building where Uncle John's fortune in palladium lay? "You asked for it!" I cried, drawing a bead on him. The stranger must have realized that I meant business. He was only ten feet from me, now, and could have guessed from my expression that I was about to shoot. With a swift movement he threw back the hood that concealed his face. My arm sagged down and I heard myself give a quick involuntary gasp. No mistaking those clean, sharp features, those frosty, sardonic eyes, that lined, thin mouth, lips twisted in an ironic smile! The man who stood there in the light that jetted from the doorway was my father! * * * * * It had been eleven years since I'd seen him, but he hadn't changed much, except that his black hair was gray at the temples. Apart from that, he didn't show his forty-five years in the least. Staring at him, my memory flashed back to that night eleven years before in this same administration building. There had been three owners of Cerean Mining in those days. My father; his brother-in-law, Uncle John; and big, red-haired Carl Conroy. They had formed the partnership on earth shortly after my mother's death, come here to Ceres looking for rare palladium. They'd just scraped along for five years, then struck the rich vein of ore. And about two months after the big strike, there came that terrible night. I was only nine at the time, and had been sent off to bed. I was awakened by the hiss of a flame-gun, a short gasping cry. I remember lying there long minutes, terrorized, then creeping to the head of the stairs, peering down. On the floor of the big room, near the safe, was Carl Conroy, a terrible blackened form, with my father bending over him. I can remember Conroy's twisted figure, the stench of burned flesh, my father's hoarse breathing. Then suddenly the door opened and my Uncle John entered, his face gray, a gun in his hand. Uncle John spoke slowly. He said that he'd noticed some of the palladium was missing every morning, and he'd asked Conroy to watch the safe. Now he knew who the thief was. My father seemed sort of stunned, choked. And I'd clung there unnoticed, hoping to wake up and find it all a dream. But it hadn't been a dream. Keeping his prisoner covered, Uncle John had backed toward the micro-wave communications set to call the authorities at Verlis. For a long moment my father stared at him, then leaped for the door. I screamed. Uncle John could have shot him in that instant, but he didn't. He just stood there, flame-gun in hand, as my father disappeared into the darkness; then he climbed the stairs to where I crouched, crying, and put an arm about my shoulders. "We'll try to forget this, Stephen," he said to me. "There's a space-ship leaving Verlis in the morning. Maybe he can make a fresh start somewhere else in the solar system. We'll bury Conroy out here, report that he died an accidental death. That's the least I can do to keep you from being known as the son of a murderer." And I cried myself to sleep on Uncle John's shoulder. All that eleven years ago. We'd never mentioned my father again. When people asked me, I said that he was dead. I hoped he was. The thought of having a father who was a murderer, a thief, a fugitive in the solar system, wasn't pleasant. Better to think he'd died bravely, decently, on some far-flung world. And now, after eleven years...! "You remember me, then ... son?" My father laughed ironically; he strode by me into the room, followed by the big Jovian. The latter, I noticed, carried several large cylinders on his back. I stood there undecided, confused, fumbling with the flame-gun. My father perched himself on the edge of the table, lit a slender, aromatic Martian cigarette, an _eyla_, the same kind he'd smoked in the past. Its fragrant, sharp aroma awoke memories of my childhood. Suddenly he spoke. "Where's John?" "He's gone to Verlis, to arrange for our passage to earth. The vein's worked out." "So that's why the miners' shacks are dark." He nodded. "I arrived just in time, then. And from the close watch you were keeping, I'd say the palladium was still here." For a long moment he eyed me, studying my face. "Healthy, and as sanctimonious as John, from the looks of you. Taon" ... he turned to the big silent Jovian ... "his gun!" Before I realized what had happened, the Jovian had snatched the flame-gun from my grasp. "I apologize, Steve," my father said blandly, "for using force. But in my past eleven years knocking about the solar system, I've noticed that people are unaccustomed to yield to reason. It's for your own good, as well. Some years ago on Jupiter I saved Taon's life. If you were to commit an indiscretion, such as killing me, he would tear you to bits. A faithful fellow, Taon. And since I am about to force this safe, I felt that you might do something rash with that gun...." * * * * * I stood there, speechless, as the huge Taon swung a double-cylindered oxy-hydrogen burner from his shoulders. He tinkered for a moment with first the hydrogen flash, then the oxygen one; a moment later a jet of cruel white flame bit into the big wall-safe. "Good Lord!" I whispered. "I've known all along that you were a thief, a murderer, but with all the solar system to prey upon, why must you come back here! To rob your own brother-in-law, after he let you escape that night! And to make sure your son is known as the son of a common thief! I'd rather have the cheapest space-rat as a father than you!" For just a moment there was a cloud in my father's eyes, but the ironic bitter smile clung to his lips. "Very melodramatic," he applauded. "You inherit that, I think, from the other side of the family. John has the same flair for theatrics. I regret now that the business of obtaining a space-ship, of finding certain ... necessary persons ... took so long. Had I come sooner, I might have aided in your education." He turned to the big Jovian. "How goes it?" "Safe good steel," Taon grunted. "One ... two ... hour job." "No hurry." My father puffed lazily at his _eyla_, flicked a bit of ash from his coat sleeve. His gestures, his well chosen words, his carefully modulated voice, all indicated that he was playing the role of debonair, cosmopolitan man of the worlds. The perfect gentleman--even when engaged in cracking a safe! I hated him for it! This space-rover, thief, murderer ... my father! Better to see him imprisoned at Verlis, than to have him at large, adding to the shame of our name. With one leap, I crossed the room, snapped on the micro-wave communications set. "Cerean Mining, calling Verlis!" I snapped. "Come...." My father hardly seemed to move, but a pencil of blue flame from his gun leaped across the room, blasting the radio to bits. "All right, Taon." He motioned back the Jovian, who, like a great faithful mastiff had sprung to his side. "No need to worry." Wiping off the gun, he turned to me. "As for you, Steve, you show more spirit than I had suspected. Although misdirected, since there was never a chance of contacting Verlis. However, I am going to pay you the compliment of putting you under lock and key while we complete our business here. In the next room, Taon, you will find, to the right of the heating unit, a closet, used, as I remember, for over-suits. Lock the boy in it." The big man nodded, his slitted, ice-green eyes expressionless. In his grip I was helpless; no earthman can match a Jovian in strength. I shot one furious glance at my father; who was perched upon the edge of the table, swinging one foot, humming placidly. For just an instant as he felt my gaze upon him, he paused in his humming, a peculiar expression upon his face. Then Taon carried me into the next room, pushed me into the closet, slid the loose, rattling bolt. I was a prisoner--a prisoner of my own father! * * * * * For my first few minutes in the closet, my mind was a skein of tangled thoughts. The past that I had believed securely buried, returned to haunt me! Another day and the palladium would have been aboard a space liner at Verlis, Uncle John and I would have left Ceres for earth. All my day-dreaming of a new life on Terra was ruined. If my father should get away with the fortune in palladium, it would be broadcast over the entire solar system. Uncle John had never reported the murder of Carl Conroy, in hopes of saving my name. But this would be bound to come out, and my chances of finding a job, a decent place in society, would be wrecked when the solar system learned that I was the son of the notorious Vance McClean. And Uncle John, who had been like a father to me since that night of Conroy's murder, would be rendered penniless after fifteen years' work! Unless I could escape, summon help.... The closet was roomy and had a light. Not one of the new astra-lux arcs, but an old-fashioned electric bulb hanging from the ceiling. We don't have all the modern gadgets on Ceres. I snapped on the light, and glanced about seeking some means of escape. On a row of nails hung several over-suits; asbestoid garments, electrically heated, for use in the biting cold of the Cerean plains. Nothing there. I then turned my attention to the door. It was of very thin, very strong plastic. Taon had not locked it, only slid home the iron bolt that fitted loosely in the brass staples. No chance, however, of working it free from this side; and while I might conceivably force the door open by battering against it, the noise would be sure to bring Taon and my father from the next room to recapture me. If any escape were made, it must be done quietly. Outside I could hear the roar of the oxy-hydrogen torch, cutting into the big wall-safe where my uncle's fortune in palladium was stored. Then suddenly the idea struck me. A wild idea, true, but one which, if it succeeded, would enable me to draw the bolt quietly. I turned to the rear of the closet, and began working back and forth one of the nails upon which over-suits were hung. After some difficulty, it came loose. My next task was more difficult ... stripping the wire from one of the electrically heated suits. The point of the nail aided me in ripping open the tough asbestoid. At length I obtained fully ten feet of wire and commenced wrapping it about the nail. This done, I tore loose the bulb and socket from the light, and, working in the dark, in danger of a severe shock, managed to connect the live wires to my wire-wrapped nail, forming a crude, but, I hoped, powerful magnet. But was it powerful enough to be effective through the thin, tough plastic door? I paused, listening. The sound of the torch would cover the noise of drawing the bolt. And if I could escape unobserved, climb through one of the windows.... Holding my magnet against the door jamb, I moved it slowly to one side. A faint squeak seemed to indicate that the bolt had moved. I repeated the operation again, and again, drawing the bolt a fraction of an inch each time. The little magnet, separated from the piece of iron by a quarter inch of steel-tough plastic, still had sufficient force to grip the bolt, draw it slightly. At last, after a score or more attempts, the bolt slid clear of the brass staples. A touch of my shoulder sent the door ajar. I was free! Very cautiously I peered through the crack. The room before me was dark, but beyond the doorway at its far end I could see Uncle John's office, brilliantly lighted by the whitish flame of the oxy-hydrogen torch. My father was still seated upon the edge of the table, swinging one foot; his face was intent, far-away. He seemed to be peering into the dim mists of the past as he sat there, and I noticed that his suave, bitter mask had vanished. Taon was working on the safe. His brutish, colossal shadow was visible on the wall like that of some great grim satyr. With infinite care I pushed open the closet door, stepped out, then slid the bolt again to make it appear that I was still a prisoner. On tiptoe I approached a window, raised it. Still no sound other than the hiss of the torch. I swung down to the ground, closed the window behind me, and ran toward the sleek silvery little space-ship. * * * * * The ice-covered plain was bitter cold; I had neglected to put on one of the asbestoid over-suits. The deserted huts, the head of the mine shaft loomed like a row of dark specters in the wan starlight. And since the cold light of the stars was cast from different angles, double, triple and even quadruple shadows fell across the barren wastes. Bleak, desolate, to an earthman, but I was used to the cold Cerean scene. Great jagged pinnacles of rock stabbing like crooked daggers at the frosty sky; rounded meteor holes dug into the ground; occasional patches of pale ice-moss, dangling like white beards from the grotesque rocks; and beyond, the glistening plain, dropping away to a ridiculously close horizon. I gasped in the cold air as I ran, felt it bite my lungs. Without gravity shoes, I covered the distance to the ship in a dozen great bounding leaps. No signs of life were visible aboard her and I felt that from the size of the little vessel it was unlikely she carried more of a crew than my father and Taon. If there were others aboard, I would have to take my chances. I glanced up at the ship. Her burnished hull shone in the thin light; the heavy outer door of the circular air-lock remained open as my father had left it. I reached up, grasped the metal stanchion, drew myself into the air-lock. A moment later I had pushed open the inner door, entered the vessel. The little ship was dimly lit, shadowy, inside. Glancing about, I found myself in a narrow companionway, one end of which led to the living quarters of the craft, the other, stretching in the direction of the control room. I turned in this latter direction, running softly to prevent my shoes from clanging on the metal floor-plates; for while the ship was silent as a tomb, I could take no chances on anyone else being aboard, surprising me. The door to the control room, at the end of the passage, was open. For a moment, as I raced along the corridor, I had entertained thoughts of making off with the ship, leaving my father and Taon marooned on Ceres, where they would soon be tracked down. Sight of the control panel, with its complicated array of dials, gauges, and switches, soon dispelled this illusion. I had never flown a space-ship before, and any attempt on my part to do so now must surely result in disaster. But with the big ultra-wave communications set that stood to one side of the control panel it would be a simple matter to call Verlis, as I had previously attempted, and notify Uncle John. Hastily I spun the dial to the wave length of the station at Verlis, called their letters. The voice of the operator there answered me. "CQR, Verlis, Ceres," he snapped. "Go ahead!" "Stephen McClean, of Cerean Mining," I whispered, bending low over the mike. "My uncle, John Gibson, is in Verlis. He'll be either at the hotel or the space-port, making arrangements for the transport of his palladium to earth. Send someone to find him at once! It's vital! Tell him" ... I hesitated a moment, wondering whether to mention the robbery and bring in the I.P. patrolmen. But it might be possible to stop my father's evil work without disgracing our name ... "tell him," I went on, "that Vance McClean is here, that he'd better round up a few men and return as quickly as possible! Got it? As quickly as possible! It's urgent!" "Right." The Verlis operator replied. "Checking back!" He repeated my message to me. "Okay," I exclaimed. "Hurry!" "Anything wrong?" the operator asked. "Only a ... family affair," I said, and snapped off the set. The message sent, my nerves lost some of their tension. Uncle John had gone to Verlis in his big rocket-sled. With its exhausts opened full, the sled could race over the icy plain well in excess of a hundred miles an hour. And since Verlis was only a short distance away he could reach the mine, with luck, in thirty minutes. I glanced through the big observation port of the control room. The window of the administration building was still lit by the white-hot glare of the oxy-hydrogen torch. An hour was necessary to cut through the steel doors of the safe, Taon had said. But the hour must be nearly up. I had to make sure that they didn't get away before Uncle John arrived. But how? At that moment my glance fell on the intricate control panel. If that were smashed.... My eyes swept the crowded control room, fell upon a heavy metal stool, drawn up at the navigator's table. I seized it, swung it high above my head. Thrown into the panel, it was sure to wreck the array of delicate instruments. And with them smashed, the ship would be grounded here indefinitely. My muscles tensed as I prepared to heave the stool into the fragile mass of wire and glass tubing. Another moment and.... "Don't throw that chair!" A clear, firm feminine voice came from the doorway behind me. "Set it gently on the floor! Any tricks and I'll shoot!" * * * * * For just a moment I hesitated, the stool held high over my head. A woman ... here! Then I felt the muzzle of a gun dig into my back, and I knew that whoever the woman was, she meant business. I set the stool carefully on the floor, turned, hands raised, to face my captor. The owner of the clear voice was young, slender, her well-modeled figure sheathed in a shining green cellatos dress. Her hair was the coppery red of a Martian desert, and her eyes were cloudy blue, the color of distant hills. The hand that held the gun was steady, her expression was determined. "I thought I heard voices," the girl said. "Who were you talking to?" "Only the radio." I nodded toward the set, grinning. "I called Verlis to tell them the Cerean Mining's safe is being cleaned out by my charming father." "Your father!" The girl's figure stiffened. "Then you're Steve McClean! And you've notified your uncle to come here? Oh, you fool! You fool!" Tears of anger filled her eyes, adding rather than detracting from her beauty. I stared at the girl, puzzled. What was she doing on this ship? And how did she know about me, about Uncle John? There was, of course, one simple explanation of her presence, but somehow I didn't like to think of it. "Now that you've found out who I am," I said, "maybe you'll tell me your name? And your status aboard this ship?" She didn't answer. Her lips moved, but she seemed to be talking to herself. "Five minutes since he called Verlis; not over half an hour's run in a rocket sled." Then, squaring her shoulders. "Keep your arms raised! And head for the air-lock! We're going to the administration building to warn Captain McClean!" I had no choice with the flame-gun tightly gripped in the girl's hand. Arms raised, I stumbled from the control room, along the companionway, through the air-lock. The girl walked behind me like a shadow, her face pale, deadly earnest. Leaving the ship we set out across the bitter icy plain toward the administration building. The blue-white light no longer streamed from the window. Which meant only one thing. The great wall-safe had been forced! A million in palladium, Uncle John's life savings, were at my father's disposal! Unless that rocket-sled broke all records returning from Verlis.... "Hurry up!" the girl behind me said through chattering teeth. "I'm freezing!" I quickened my pace, bounding across the all but gravity-less plain. Snow creaked under our feet, our breaths were white clouds, our shadows sprawled like grotesque monsters on the pale ice. At length we reached the low crystalloid building; the girl's gun digging into my back, I opened the door, entered. * * * * * The room was a scene of desolation. To one side of the safe stood the twin-cylindered blow torch, shut off, now that its work of destruction was done. The huge door of the safe, its lock melted away, the edges of the hole glowing cherry-red, gaped wide, revealing stacks of small, steel-white ingots. Palladium ... a million dollars' worth! Taon, the big silent Jovian, was busy taking the bars of precious metal from the safe, grunting with satisfaction as he stacked the ingots on the floor. My father, as we entered, had just taken a small, leather-bound book from the safe, was leafing through it with a queer expression on his face. On seeing us, he whirled about, gasping, "Clare! And you, Stephen!" He turned, frowning, to the big Jovian. "This is your fault, Taon! You have done poorly! I ordered him locked up." "Don't blame Taon," I grinned. "It wasn't his fault!" Without a word my father strode into the next room, unbolted the closet. At sight of my home-made magnet, still dangling from its wires, he nodded blandly. "Very good, Stephen," he said, re-entering the room. "You show signs of real ingenuity. I'm afraid I underestimated you." He glanced at me with an air of satisfaction. "More than you think!" the girl Clare exclaimed. "We've got to hurry! He radioed John Gibson at Verlis to return at once! He put the call through before I knew he was on the ship!" For a long minute my father remained silent, puffing at his eternal Martian _eyla_ studying the greenish clouds of smoke as though the future lay revealed in their swirling tendrils. The girl bit her lip impatiently, glanced nervously toward the door. Taon stood motionless, his broad, ugly face stolid, awaiting orders. "I must confess," my father said at length, "that matters haven't turned out just as I had expected. I had intended to take the palladium ... and my loving son, here ... aboard the ship, make a quick getaway. Now, thanks to that message to Verlis, I am known to be the person responsible for the ... ah ... robbery, and will be pursued by the I.P. men. Moreover, there is another matter" ... his glance fell upon the leather-bound book he had taken from the safe ... "that has caused me unexpectedly to change my plans. I think it is wiser all around for us to remain here." "But you can't!" the girl cried. "It's madness! He can have you arrested for murder! My father's...." I never heard the rest of what she was going to say. The staccato roar of rockets, the grinding of steel brakes biting into ice, drowned out her words. A rocket-sled was screaming to a stop before the building, the flare of its exhausts flickering through the window like terrestrial lightning. Taon stiffened, his hairy hand seeking the butt of his flame-gun. The girl went whiter still. And I drew a quick sigh of relief for the first time in the past two hours. Only my father betrayed no emotion; he sat there like an image carved from ice, that bitter, mocking smile on his lips. With a bang the door of the building slammed open. Uncle John, tall, gaunt, bushy-browed, strode into the room, frowning. "Good evening, John," my father said pleasantly. "We've been missing you. You're all that's needed to complete this family reunion." "Vance! Then it was true, Stephen's message! You've nerve, coming here!" Uncle John shook his head. "Thief! Murderer! Liar! I suppose I was a fool to let you escape that night. I only did so for the honor of the family and the name of Stephen, here. And so you return to commit another robbery, to make sure your son is known as the son of a space-rat!" "You touch me deeply, John!" my father observed dryly. "As sanctimonious as ever! Pure, honest John Gibson! Ceres' outstanding citizen!" He surged to his feet, leaned across the desk; for the second time that night his cold, mocking mask dropped, revealing the man beneath. Eyes like glowing coals, face etched in savage lines, he stared at my uncle. "I've thought of you a great deal these eleven years! In the radium fields of that hell-planet Mercury, hunting gold in the stinking Venusian jungles, prospecting the dusty, choking deserts of Mars! And there was one thing that kept me going! The thought of this minute! A year ago I'd scraped together enough to buy the little space-yacht outside. Then I had to go to Terra, find Clare...." He motioned toward the girl. Uncle John swung about, noticing the girl for the first time as she stepped from the shadows. His face took on a drawn, tight look. "Who is this girl?" he croaked. "Allow me." My father waved an airy hand. "Miss Clare Conroy, daughter of the late Carl Conroy." "Daughter of...! But I didn't know he had a daughter! Why is she here?" Uncle John whirled about. "What deviltry is this? You, the murderer of her father, kidnaping the daughter...." "Not kidnaping, Mr. Gibson," Clare said quietly. "I came of my own free will." * * * * * I gasped. This girl, Conroy's daughter! And she'd come with the man who had killed her father, to the scene of the crime, was aiding him in stealing the palladium. I felt as though I were living some mad nightmare. My father, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. He stumped out his _eyla_, smiled ironically across the desk. "You see," he said, "Clare has faith in me. She believes that after her father's death, and my own foolish flight, the partnership agreements were destroyed, leaving you, John, sole possessor of Cerean Mining. You didn't know Conroy had a daughter on earth. I was a fugitive who'd never dare go to court over my share, and Stephen knew nothing of the arrangement, and wouldn't have contested if he had. Thus Cerean Mining was yours." "You're accusing me of robbery?" Uncle John roared, the veins of his temple standing out. "You ... a murderer, a thief! Good Lord! You accuse me when I arrive to find you committing burglary!" He pointed to the blasted safe door. "I'll admit," my father said, smiling, "that my original intention was to take two-thirds of the palladium, force Stephen aboard, and leave. With a murder charge hanging over me, I couldn't afford to take the matter of the metal to court. But now something has occurred that in my wildest dreams I hadn't hoped for. At no time did I take into account that vain, boastful streak in your character, John. You had committed an act which you thought supremely skilful, supremely clever, yet you had to play the pious, honest business man. You longed to boast of it, to tell someone, but to do so would have meant your neck. And so, bursting to recount your cleverness in gaining control of Cerean Mining, you yielded to sheer folly. You kept a diary!" My father waved toward the leather-bound book he had found in the safe. For just an instant Uncle John remained motionless, shadows flickering over his gaunt face. Then he leaped, clutching for the book. Quick as he had been, Taon was quicker. The big Jovian seemed to slide across the room as though on wires. His huge hand caught Uncle John, held him back as one would hold a child. My father, who had not even blinked, flipped through the pages of the little black book. "It _was_ clever, John," he said serenely. "Very subtle. You heard me coming, that night, rayed Conroy, ran outside. I entered, knelt at his side. It was then, dying, that he told me of his daughter on earth. A moment later you entered, caught me supposedly red-handed. Stephen, on the stairs above, saw me kneeling beside Conroy, saw you enter. Even so, I might have had a chance in court if I hadn't lost my head, run away. Naturally you hushed the matter up, 'for the honor of the family.' You didn't want an I.P. patrol investigating the crime. The mine was in your control and you won Stephen over by not prosecuting me. It might have been wiser if you had. However, I also believe in the honor of the family. Clare and I have no wish to see you in the lethal-ray chamber. We'll take a third of the palladium apiece," he motioned toward the heap of gray ingots, "and leave you a third. Which you don't deserve." Eyes hollow pits, my uncle stared at the precious metal. The million he had counted on, reduced by two thirds! His bony fingers clutched his belt tightly. "And if I refuse?" he said slowly. "You'll be turned over to the authorities at Verlis for the murder of my father!" Clare's voice was like a silken lash. Then suddenly Uncle John threw back his head, laughing. "You fools!" he said. "D'you think I'd come back here alone after my beloved nephew so kindly warned me? There's plenty of room in my sled!" He raised his voice, shouting, "Scott! Carr! Help! Quick!" At once the front door of the administration building burst open and half a dozen space-rats, denizens of the slums of Verlis, swarmed into the room, flame guns in hand. Vaguely I heard Clare scream and I dove to snatch up the gun she let drop. As I whirled to face the intruders, a bolt of blue flame leaped out, knocking the gun from my hand. Taon crouched to spring, his huge muscles standing out in ridges, but my father's quiet voice halted him. "No good, Taon," he said quietly. "They'd only blast you to bits. I must, I think, be getting old. I should have realized he'd have men with him. Well, John," he turned to my uncle, "you win this round. Just what do you propose to do?" "Your ship is outside," Uncle John said with an unctuous smile. "And these men of mine can handle her. I'm taking this palladium back to earth with me!" "And us?" my father asked quietly. "So far as Ceres knows, you will have left aboard the yacht with me. So far as Terra will know, you four contracted space-fever and were buried in the void. All heirs, claimants, to the palladium gone, leaving me sole owner. As for this diary" ... he tossed the book onto the floor, blasted it to ashes with a beam from his flame-gun. "And now," he went on calmly, "my men will take the four of you outside, dispose of you. Buried under a few feet of ice, your bodies will certainly never be found." * * * * * Clare's hand fluttered to her throat. I stood there stupidly, gaping. My whole life seemed to be whirling like a pin-wheel. This cold killer, my Uncle John! My Uncle John whom I had trusted, who had been a father to me these eleven years! I felt that I should say something, do something heroic, but I could only stare. The six space-rats, their guns ready.... Clare's pallid face ... Taon, standing there like a colossal robot. All at once my father's voice broke the brittle silence. "Come, come, John!" he said dryly. "You're being melodramatic now. Such slaughter is useless." I watched him as he spoke. He was standing near the safe, hands behind his back, outwardly very calm, but I could see his eyes darting about the room in search of some means of escape. Uncle John must have noticed his eyes, too, for he waved the men forward. "No chance for any of your tricks, Vance," he said harshly. "You four stand in my way and you're going to be removed! Take them out!" Still stunned, I stumbled from the room between two of the space-rats. One of them, a half-breed with Venusian blood predominant, walked behind Clare, gun in hand. Despite her pallor she kept her chin high. Taon was stolid, emotionless as always, while my father was jaunty, careless, as though merely going for a stroll. As we passed through the door, I glanced back. Uncle John was busy picking up the ingots of palladium; he seemed to have forgotten us already. His eyes were bright with avarice, triumph, and he seemed to caress each bar of the precious stuff as he touched it. The sight filled me with sudden rage. "You're mad!" I cried. "Mad! You can't hope to get away with this!" He glanced up impatiently. "Hurry up with it!" he snapped, and slammed the door behind us. Like four automatons, we crossed the icy plain. Near a jagged pinnacle of rock, on the edge of the landing field, the half-breed paused. "As good a place as any," he grunted. "Line them up over there!" They placed us with our backs to the rock, retreated several paces, flame-guns ready. I shot a furious look at my father. Was he going to see us all butchered by the energy blasts without so much as a struggle? Better to go down fighting than this. And Clare ... so young, lovely.... I was just flexing my muscles for a desperate leap when my father spoke. "Gentlemen," he said, "it would be to your credit to permit at least one of us to die happy. Now it so happens that I am addicted to the use of the Martian _eyla_. It is, I find, far superior to terrestial tobacco, having a cheering effect not unlike benzedrine. If you would permit me to enjoy one last smoke of it, I would find my transition to another and, I hope, better world infinitely more pleasant." The half-breed glanced questioningly at his companions, then at the little administration building across the plain. "Come," my father said pleasantly. "Surely you won't refuse a man's last wish. It takes only eight minutes to smoke an _eyla_ tube. And at the first sign of any trickery, you can shoot." The half-breed shrugged. "Okay," he grunted. With elaborate care my father drew one of the slim, greenish tubes from his pocket, lit it. Quickly the minutes slipped by. The half-breed stamped his feet against the cold, glanced at the _eyla_. Only a tiny stump remained in my father's fingers. "All right," the Venusian growled. "Let's get this over with!" "As you wish," my father said cheerfully. He took a last puff of the tube, tossed it onto the ice, ground it out with his foot. One long glance he shot toward the lights of the administration building, shining through the gloom, then straightened up. "And now--" he murmured. Six flame-guns swung up to face us. Taon, betraying his first signs of emotion, gazed anxiously at my father. The latter's face was tense, anxious. In another moment.... * * * * * And then it happened. A blasting, thundering roar echoed across the plain! Dazed, I saw the windows of the administration building give forth a blinding flash, lighting up the ice like a magnesium flare! A sound of shattering glass, of splintering plastic reached us. The administration building was being wrecked systematically by a mystic, unknown force! With the explosion, the space-rats whirled toward it, instinctively. At the same instant my father plunged forward, Taon at his heels. The huge Jovian seized two of the men, crashed their heads together with a sickening crack. Limp, they fell to the ground, and Taon passed on. While the giant was thus disposing of two of our adversaries, my father had leaped upon another, borne him to the ground in a wild tangle of arms and legs. All this in a split second, before I could collect my wits. The three remaining space-rats leaped back, gripping their guns. A flash of blue flame leaped out, scorching Taon's shoulder, but before the man could fire again the Jovian's huge fist had stretched him upon the ice. Moving forward, I saw the Venusian half-breed aim at my father who was still struggling with his first opponent. With all the force at my command I hurtled forward, deflecting his arm so that the dazzling blue bolt of flame tore up the ice, harmlessly. As I struggled with the man I saw Taon pick up his third opponent, hurl the inert form at the remaining space-rat, sending him to the ground. Then my father arose from the unconscious figure of his antagonist, dug a flame-gun into the half-breed's ribs. At once his struggles ceased; he raised his hands submissively over his head. "Thanks, Stephen," my father drawled. "I shouldn't be here if you hadn't deflected his aim. How badly are you hurt, Taon?" "Little burn," the Jovian rumbled. "No hurt much." He grinned as Clare ran toward us. "No die now, missy." "Chin up," my father said, patting her shoulder. "It's all right now, child. Let's go back to the house." As soon as our prisoners were disarmed and bound, we returned to the administration building. It was wrecked by the explosion. Doors and windows blown out, walls blackened. Inside, it was even worse. Chairs, desks, splintered, the floor littered with débris--and Uncle John, a charred and terrible figure, sprawled before the safe, one hand still clutching an ingot of palladium. "What ... what was it?" I whispered. "What caused the explosion?" "Hydrogen," my father said gravely. "As I stood there with my hands behind my back, I opened the hydrogen valve of that oxy-hydrogen blow torch. We'd used a good bit of it to blast open the safe, but there was still plenty, under that pressure, to fill the room, unite with the oxygen already present. A gas explosion, and a powerful one." "But," I demanded, "what caused the gases to unite? What ignited them?" "And you've been working at these mines all these years?" he cried. "Don't you know that certain metals like platinum, or palladium, act as a catalyst? The gases are absorbed on their surface, unite. And when hydrogen and oxygen unite...." He stooped, picked up one of the gray ingots. "Here's what ignited that mixture! I knew I had only to stall until enough hydrogen had entered the room to create an explosion." He shrugged. "I suppose the play's ended. Now that John's gone, the metal will only be divided two ways. Half to Clare, as her father's only heir, and half to me. I'll turn my share over to you, Stephen, as recompense for any unpleasantness I may have caused you in the past. Your late uncle's rocket-sled is still outside. I'll have Taon load half the palladium aboard it and you can go to Verlis, set up as a wealthy young gentleman of leisure." He smiled, sardonically. I stared at him. From that smiling mask his eyes were fastened upon me. "And you, sir?" I asked. "Me?" he seemed surprised. "I'll be taking Clare and her little fortune back to Terra. After that" ... he shrugged again. "It'd be of no interest to you, I'm sure. Taon, take half of these ingots and put them aboard the rocket-sled outside." "No!" I heard myself saying in a queer choked voice. "No! I ... I'm coming with you and Clare. If you'll have me ... Dad." For the third time that night my father's bitter mocking mask fell from him ... and this time for good. "Steve!" he murmured, putting an arm about my shoulders. "Steve!" Taon, busy picking up the gray ingots, paused, his gaze shifting from Clare to Dad to myself. "Good!" he grinned. "Dam' good! All one family soon now! Very dam' good!" 
54896	----	A RAILWAY ROMANCE. MY ADVENTURE IN THE FLYING SCOTSMAN. MY ADVENTURE IN THE FLYING SCOTSMAN: _A ROMANCE OF_ London and North-Western Railway Shares. BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS. LONDON: JAMES HOGG AND SONS, 7 LOVELL'S COURT, PATERNOSTER ROW. 1888. _All Rights reserved._ Richard Clay & Sons, BREAD STREET HILL, LONDON; _Bungay, Suffolk_. INTRODUCTION. The following story was told me by that meek but estimable little man who forms the central figure in it. I have made him relate the strange vicissitudes of his life in the first person, and, by doing so, preserve, I venture to believe, some quaintness of thought and expression that is characteristic of him. MY ADVENTURE IN THE FLYING SCOTSMAN. CHAPTER I. A DANGEROUS LEGACY. The rain gave over about five o'clock, and the sun, having struggled unavailingly all day with a leaden November sky, burst forth in fiery rage, when but a few short minutes separated him from the horizon. His tawny splendour surrounded me as I trudged from Richmond, in Surrey, to the neighbouring hamlet of Petersham. Above me the wet, naked branches of the trees shone red, and seemed to drip with blood; the hedgerows sparkled their flaming gems; in the meadows, which I struck across to save time, parallel streaks of crimson lay along the cart-ruts. All nature glowed in the lurid light, and, to a mind fraught with much trouble and anxiety, there was something sinister in the slowly dying illumination, in the lowering, savage sky, in the bars of blood that sank hurtling together into the west, and in the vast cloudlands of gloom that were now fast bringing back the rain and the night. Should you ask what reason I, John Lott, a small, middle-aged, banking clerk, who lived in North London, might have for thus rushing away from the warm fire, good wife, pretty daughter, and comforting tea-cake, that were all at this moment awaiting me somewhere in Kilburn, I would reply, that death, sudden and startling, had brought about this earthquake in my orderly existence. Should you again naturally suggest that a four-wheeled cab might have effected with greater cleanliness and dispatch, than my short legs, the country journey between Richmond and Petersham, I would admit the fact, but, at the same time, advance sufficiently sound reasons why that muddy walk was best undertaken on foot. For, touching this death, but one other living man could have equal interest in it with myself; and for me, especially, were entwined round about it issues of very grave and stupendous moment. Honour, rectitude, my duty to myself and to my neighbour, together with other no less important questions, were all at stake; and upon my individual judgment, blinded by no thoughts of personal danger or self-interest, must the case be decided. I had foreseen this for some years, had given much consideration to the matter; but no satisfactory solution of the difficulties at any time presented itself, and now the long anticipated circumstance arrived, as it always does with men of my calibre, to find him most involved and concerned in the conduct of affairs, least qualified to cope with them. Why I walked to Oak Lodge, Petersham, then, was to gain a few minutes, to collect my wandering wits and acquire a mental balance capable of meeting the troubles that awaited me. What I had been unable to accomplish in two years, however, did not seem likely to be effected in twenty minutes; and, indeed, the angry sunset, together with an element of grave personal danger already mentioned, combined to drive all reasonable trains of thought from my head. Ultimately I arrived at my destination, with a mind about as concentrated and purposes about as strong as those of a drowned worm. And wherefore all this misery, do you suppose? Simply because an estimable lady had just been pleased to leave me a comfortable matter of ten thousand pounds. So far good; but when I say that I am not related to the deceased, that her next of kin has for the past fifteen years been seeking an opportunity to take my life, and that a meeting between us is now imminent, it will be noticed the case presents certain unusual difficulties. This assertion--that a man has sought to rob me of my insignificant existence for fifteen years--doubtless appears so preposterous, that it is best I should clearly explain the matter at once. A scrap of the past must here, then, be intercalated between my arrival at Oak Lodge and the events which followed it. Upon my father's death, my mother, who was at that time not much over twenty years of age, married again with one George Beakbane, a wealthy farmer and owner of a comfortable freehold estate in Norfolk. This property had for its title the family name of Beakbane. My step-father, after one son was born to him, lost his young wife, and was left with two infants upon his hands. Right well he treated both, making no sort of distinction, but sharing his love between us, and, after we were of an age to benefit from a man's training, bringing us up under his own eye and in his own school. It was a Spartan entry upon life for young Joshua Beakbane and myself; but whereas I thrived under the puritanic and colourless regime, Mr. Beakbane's own son, a youth by nature prone to vicious habits and evil communications, chafed beneath the iron rule, which only became more unbending in consequence. There was much to be said on either side, no doubt; though none could have foreseen, as a result of those trifling restraints and paternal rebukes, the great and terrible punishment that would fall both upon father and son. When he was twenty-one years of age, Joshua Beakbane, in a fit of mad folly, that to me is scarcely conceivable, ran away from the Farm, taking with him about five hundred pounds of his father's money. He was pursued, arrested, and committed for trial at the next assizes. Old George Beakbane, a just, proud man, sprung from a race that had ever been just and proud, would listen to no plea of mercy. There was none to speak for the culprit but me--his half-brother; and my prayers were useless. The father sent his son to gaol, blotted his name from the family tree, and, after that day, regarded me as his heir. That I should change my name to Beakbane was a stipulation of my step-father, and this I had no objection to doing. My inclinations and ambitions were towards art, but such prospects as a painter's life could promise were distasteful to George Beakbane, and I relinquished them. Joshua's sentence amounted to ten years of penal servitude, and it was the wish of my life at that time to some day bring about a reconciliation between father and son. Any of the great advantages accruing to myself through the present arrangements I would have gladly foregone to see the old man happy; for him I loved sincerely, and clearly saw, as the time went by, that all joy had faded out of his life after his son went to prison. Long before the ten years were fulfilled, however, George Beakbane died and I succeeded to the estate. And here I solemnly declare and avow, before heaven and men, that my intention from the first moment of accepting the mastership of Beakbane, was, by doing so, to benefit him whom I still considered the rightful owner thereof. Upon Joshua's release I fully purposed an act of abdication in his favour. I should, had all gone well, have taken such legal measures as might be convenient to the case, and reinstated my relative in that situation which, but for his own reckless folly, had all along been proper to him. Now the ability to do so much for Joshua Beakbane would not have been mine, unless I had consented to become the heir; because, failing me, old George Beakbane might have sought and found another inheritor for his property; and one, likely enough, without my moral principles or ultimate intentions. All was ordered very differently to what I hoped and desired, however. One short year before my half-brother would have relieved me of my responsibilities, a concatenation of dire events brought ruin and destruction upon me. I have never attempted to deny my own miserable weakness in this matter. I had married during my stewardship, and for my wife's brother, a man as I believed of sterling honesty and considerable wealth, I consented to 'back' certain bills, as a matter of convenience for some two or three months. Again I admit my criminal frailty; but with the fact and its consequences we have now to deal. My brother-in-law's entanglements increased, and he cut the knot by blowing his brains out, leaving me with a stupendous mountain of debt staring me in the face. The Beakbane property went to meet it. Every acre was mortgaged, every mortgage foreclosed upon, the estate ceased to exist as a whole. The debt was ultimately discharged, and I, with my wife and child, came to London. These things reaching Joshua Beakbane's ears about a month before his sentence expired, shattered his hopes and ambitions for the future, left him absolutely a pauper, and terribly excited his rage and indignation against me. I had not trusted myself to tell him the fatal news; but in the ear of my messenger, a lawyer, he hissed an awful oath that, did we ever meet, my life would pay the debt I owed him. Knowing the man to have some of his father's iron fixity of purpose, together with much varied wickedness peculiar to himself, and for which our mutual mother was in no way responsible, I took him at his word, changed my name yet again, and buried myself in the metropolis. Here I very quickly found that my art was not of a sort to keep my wife and child, when the question of painting to sell came to be considered. I therefore sought more solid employment, and was fortunate to obtain a position in Messrs. Macdonald's bank. Years rolled by to the number of fifteen. Joshua Beakbane sought me high and low; indeed, I am fully persuaded that his desire to take my life became a monomania with him, for he left no stone unturned to come at me. But I wore spectacles of dark blue glass when about in the streets, and always shaved clean from the time of my entry on life in London. Several times I met my half-brother, till becoming gradually assured of my safety, I grew bold and employed a private detective to discover his home and occupation. Thus I learned that most of his time was spent in attending race meetings, and that he enjoyed some notoriety amongst the smaller fry of bookmakers. Let the reader possess his soul in patience a short half page longer and these tedious but necessary preliminaries will be ended. Miss Sarah Beakbane-Minifie, the lady whose death has just been recorded, was a near relation of my half-brother, but, of course, no connection of mine. Me, however, she esteemed very highly, and always had done so, from the time that my mother married into her family. Having watched my career narrowly, being convinced of my integrity, misfortunes, and honourable motives in the past, she had seen fit to regard me as a martyr and a notable person; though her own kinsman received but scant acknowledgment at her hands. And now her entire fortune, specie, bonds and shares, was mine, and Joshua Beakbane found himself once more in the cold. What were his feelings and intentions? I asked myself. Was he still disposed as of old towards me, and would he prefer my life to any earthly advancement I might now be in a position to extend to him? Would he accept a compromise? Should I meet him at Petersham, and if so, should I ever leave Oak Lodge excepting feet foremost? What was my clear duty in the case, and would the doing of it be likely to facilitate matters? Such were some of the questions to which I could find no replies as I walked slowly through the mud, and then, feeling that suspense only made the future look more terrific, struck across the fields, as aforesaid, and became eager to reach my destination as quickly as possible. Come what might, if alive, I was bound to start for Scotland on the following day to be witness in a legal case pending against my firm; and the recollection of this duty was uppermost in my thoughts when I finally reached Oak Lodge. Martha Prescott and her husband, the deceased lady's sole retainers, greeted me, and their grief appeared sufficiently genuine as I was ushered by them to the drawing-room. This apartment--charming enough in the summer when the French windows were always open, and the garden without, a mass of red and white roses, syringa, and other homely flowers--was now dark and cheerless. The blinds were not drawn, the last dim gleams of daylight appeared more dreary than total gloom. A decanter of port wine with some dried fruits stood upon the table, and I am disposed to think that one, at least, of the two men sitting by the fire had been smoking. For a moment I believed the taller and younger of these to be my enemy, but a flicker of fire-light showed the mistake as both rose to meet me. Mr. Plenderleath, my dead friend's solicitor, a flabby, pompous gentleman, with a scent of eau-de-Cologne about him and a nice choice of language, shook my hand and his head in the most perfect unison. Joshua Beakbane, he informed me, had been communicated with, but as yet no answer to the telegram was received. "For yourself, I beg you will accept my condolence and congratulations in one breath, dear sir. When such a woman as Miss Beakbane-Minifie must die, it is well to feel that such a man as Mr. Lott shall have the administration of that which the blessed deceased cannot take with her. My lamented client and your aunt has left you, dear sir, the considerable fortune of one hundred thousand pounds." "She is not any relation; but, my good sir, the deceased lady always led me to understand that ten thousand pounds or so was the sum-total of her wealth." "The admirable woman intentionally deceived you, dear sir, in order that your surprise and joy might be the greater. And by a curious circumstance, which your aunt's eccentricities have effected, I can this very evening show you most of your property, or what stands for it." "Miss Beakbane-Minifie was not my aunt," I repeated; but Mr. Plenderleath paid no heed to me and wandered on. "God forbid," he said, "that I should say any word which might reflect in your mind, no matter how remotely, on the blessed defunct. Still the truth remains--that your aunt, during the latter days of her life, developed instincts only too common in age, though none the less painful for that. A certain distrust, almost bordering upon suspicion, prompted her to withdraw from my keeping the divers documents, certificates, and so forth that represented the bulk of her property, and which, I need hardly observe, were as safe in my fire-proof iron strong-room as in the Bank of England. Have them she would, however, and I confess to you, dear sir, that the knowledge of so much wealth hidden in this comparatively lonely and ill-guarded old house has caused me no slight uneasiness. But all is well that ends well, we may now say, and the danger being past, need not revert to it. True, this mass of money must stay here for the present, but, I assume, you will not leave this establishment again until the last rites have been performed. One more word and I have done. I find upon looking into the estate that your aunt has been realizing considerable quantities of stock quite recently upon her own judgment without any reference to me. The wisdom of such negotiations we need not now discuss. Nothing but good of the blessed dead. However, the money is here; indeed, no less a sum than thirteen thousand pounds, in fifty-pound notes, lies upon yonder table. Now your aunt--" "Please understand, sir," I explained testily, "that, once and for all, the deceased lady was no relation to me whatever." I felt in one of those highly-strung, sensitive moods which men occasionally chance upon, and in which the reiteration of some trivial error or expression blinds them to proper reflection on the business in hand, no matter how momentous. Moreover, the suggestion that I should stop in the lonely house of death to guard my wealth that night, was abominable. Without my wife or some equally capable person I would not have undertaken such a vigil for the universe. "I apologize," said Mr. Plenderleath, in answer to my rebuke. "I was about to remark when you interrupted me, that Miss Beakbane-Minifie's principal source of increment was a very considerable number of shares in the London and North-Western Railway. The certificates for these are also here. Now, to conclude, dear sir. Upon Mr. Joshua Beakbane's arrival, which should not be long delayed, you and he can appoint a day for the funeral, after which event I will, of course, read the will in the presence of yourself and such few others as may be interested therein. Your aunt passed calmly away, I understand, about four o'clock this morning. Her end was peace. For myself, I need only say that I should not be here to-night in the usual order of events. But the good Prescotts, ignorant of your address, telegraphed to me in their sad desolation, and, as a Christian man, I deemed it my duty to respond to their call without loss of time." Mr. Plenderleath sighed, bowed, and resumed his seat after drinking a glass of wine. Candles were brought in, and I then explained to the solicitor something of my relations with Joshua Beakbane, also the danger that a possible meeting between us might mean for me. The legal brain was deeply interested by those many questions this statement of mine gave rise to. He saw the trial that any sojourn in Oak Lodge must be to me, and was, moreover, made fully alive to the fact that I had not the slightest intention of stopping there beyond another hour or so. I own I was in a terribly nervous condition; and a man can no more help the weakness of his nerves than the colour of his hair. It then transpired that the third person of our party was Mr. Plenderleath's junior clerk, a taciturn, powerful young fellow, with a face I liked the honest look of. He offered, if we approved the suggestion, to keep watch and ward at Petersham during the coming night. Mr. Plenderleath pooh-poohed the idea as being ridiculous beyond the power of words to express; but finding I was not of his opinion, declared that, for his part, if I really desired such an arrangement he would allow the young man to remain in the house until after the will was read and the property legally my own. "Personally I would trust Mr. Sorrell with anything," declared the solicitor; "but whether you, a stranger to him, are right in doing the same, I will not presume to say." The plan struck me as being excellent, however, and was accordingly determined upon. And now there lay before me a duty which, in my present frame of mind, I confess I had no stomach for. Propriety demanded that I should look my last on the good friend who was gone, and I prepared to do so. Slowly I ascended the stairs and hesitated at the bed-chamber door before going into the presence of death. At this moment I felt no sorrow at hearing a soft foot-fall in the apartment. Martha Prescott was evidently within, and I entered, somewhat relieved at not having to undergo the ordeal alone. My horror, as may be supposed, was very great then to find the room empty. All I saw of life set my heart thumping at my ribs, and fastened me to the spot upon which I stood. There was another door at the further end of this room, and through it I just caught one glimpse of Joshua Beakbane's broad back as he vanished, closing the door after him. There could be no mistake. Two shallow steps led up to the said door, and it only gave access to a narrow apartment scarce bigger than a cupboard. The dead lady, with two wax candles burning at her feet, lay an insignificant atom in the great canopied bed. The room was tidy, and everything decent and well ordered, save that the white cerement which was wrapped about the corpse had been moved from off her face. But death so calm and peaceful as this paled before the terror of what I had witnessed. I dare not convince myself by rushing to the door through which my enemy had disappeared. My hair stood upon end. A vile sensation, as of ants creeping on my flesh, came over me. I turned, shuddering, and somehow found myself once more with the men I had left. I told my adventure, only to be politely laughed at by both. The young clerk, whose name was Sorrell, offered to make careful search of the premises, and calling the Prescotts, we went up with haste to seek the cause of my alarm. The door through which, as I believed, Joshua Beakbane had made his exit from the death-chamber yielded to us without resistance, and the small receptacle into which it opened was empty. Some of the dead lady's dresses were hung upon the walls, and these, with an old oaken trunk containing linen, which had rosemary and camphor in it to keep out the moths, were all we could find. The window was fastened, and the wooden shutters outside in their place. Young Sorrell had some ado to keep from laughing at my discomfiture, but we silently returned past where the two candles were burning and rejoined Mr. Plenderleath. That gentleman at my request consented to stay and dine, after which meal he and I would return to town together. He urged me to drink something more generous than claret, which, being quite unstrung, I did do, and was gradually regaining my mental balance when a circumstance occurred that threw me into a greater fit of prostration than before. A telegram arrived for Mr. Plenderleath, and was read aloud by him. It ran as follows:-- "_Joshua Beakbane died third November. Caught chill on Cambridgeshire day of Newmarket Houghton Meeting. Body unclaimed, buried by parish._" "Now this communication--" began Mr. Plenderleath in his pleasing manner, but broke off upon seeing the effect of the telegram on me. "My dear sir, you are ill. What is the matter now? You look as though you had seen a ghost." "Man alive, _I have_!" I shrieked out. "What can be clearer? A vision of Joshua Beakbane has evidently been vouchsafed me, and--and--I wish devoutly that it were not so." The hatefulness of this reflection blinded me for some time to my own good fortune. Here, in one moment, was all my anxiety and tribulation swept away. The incubus of fifteen long years had rolled off my life, and the future appeared absolutely unclouded. To this great fact the solicitor now invited my attention, and congratulated me with much warmth upon the happy turn affairs had taken. But it was long before I could remotely realize the situation, long before I could grasp my freedom, very long before I could convince myself that the shadow I had seen but recently, flitting from the side of the dead, had only existed in my own overwrought imagination. After dinner, while half an hour still remained before the fly would call for Mr. Plenderleath and me, we went together through the papers and memoranda he had collected from his late client's divers desks and boxes. Young Sorrell was present, and naturally took considerable interest in the proceedings. "Of course, Mr. Lott," he said, laughing, "against ghosts all my care must be useless. And still, as ghosts are impalpable, they could hardly walk off with this big bag here, and its contents." We were now slowly placing the different documents in a leathern receptacle Mr. Plenderleath had found, well suited to the purpose. I was looking at a share certificate of the London and North-Western Railway, when Mr. Sorrell addressed me again. "I am a great materialist myself, sir," he declared, "and no believer in spiritualistic manifestations of any sort; but everybody should be open to conviction. Will you kindly give me some description of the late Mr. Joshua Beakbane? Then, if anything untoward appears, I shall be better able to understand it." For answer, and not heeding upon what I was working, I made as good a sketch as need be of my half-brother. Martha Prescott, who now arrived to announce the cab, said as far as she remembered the original of the drawing, it was life-like. It should have been so, for if one set of features more than another were branded on my mind, those lineaments belonged to Joshua Beakbane. When I had finished my picture, and not before, I discovered that I had been drawing upon the back of a share certificate already mentioned. Then Mr. Plenderleath and I left the gloomy, ill-lighted abode of death, bidding Mr. Sorrel good-night, and feeling distinct satisfaction at once again being in the open air. I speak for myself, but am tolerably certain that, in spite of his pompous exterior, the solicitor was well-pleased to get back to Richmond, and from the quantity of hot brandy and water he consumed while waiting for the London train, I gathered that even his ponderous nerves had been somewhat shaken. There was much for me to tell my wife and daughter on returning to Kilburn, and the small hours of morning had already come before we retired to sleep, and thank God for this wonderful change in our fortunes. But the thought of that brave lad guarding my wealth troubled me. I saw the silent house buried in darkness; I saw the great black expanse of garden and meadow, the rain falling heavily down, and the trees tossing their lean arms into the night. I thought of the little form lying even more motionless than those who slept--mayhap with a dim ghostly watcher still beside it. I thought, in fine, of many mysterious horrors, and allowed my mind to move amidst a hundred futile alarms. CHAPTER II. THE "FLYING SCOTSMAN." With daylight, or such drear apology for it as a London November morning allows, I arose, prepared for my journey to the north, and wrote certain letters before starting for the city. The monotonous labours of a clerk's life were nearly ended now; the metropolis--a place both my wife and I detested--would soon see the last of us; already I framed in my mind the letter which should shortly be received by the bank manager announcing my resignation. It may perhaps have been gathered that I am a weak man in some ways, and I confess these little preliminaries to my altered state gave me a sort of pleasure. The ladies argued throughout breakfast as to the locality of our new home, and paid me such increased attentions as befit the head of a house who, from being but an unimportant atom in the machinery of a vast money-making establishment, suddenly himself blossoms into a man of wealth. Thus had two successive fortunes accrued to me through my mother's second marriage; and no calls of justice or honour could quarrel with my right to administer this second property as I thought fit. For Joshua Beakbane had left no family, and, concerning others bearing his name, I did not so much as know if any existed. To town I went, and taking no pains to conceal my prosperity, was besieged with hearty congratulations and desires to drink, at my expense, to continued good fortune. How brief was that half-hour of triumph, and what a number of friends I found among my colleagues in men whom I had always suspected of quite a contrary disposition towards me! I had scarcely settled to a clear mastery of the business that would shortly take me towards Scotland, when a messenger reached me from Mr. Plenderleath. The solicitor desired to see me without delay, and obtaining leave, I drove to his chambers in Chancery Lane. Never shall I forget the sorry sight my smug, sententious friend presented; never before have I seen any fellow-creature so nearly reduced to the level of a jelly-fish. He was sitting in his private room, his letters unopened, his overcoat and scarf still upon him. A telegram lay at his feet, after reading which he had evidently sank into his chair and not moved again. He pointed to the message as I entered, shutting the door behind me. It came from Petersham, and ran as follows-- "_Window drawing-room open this morning. Gentleman gone, bag gone._" A man by nature infirm of purpose, will sometimes show unexpected determination when the reverse might be feared from him; and now, finding Mr. Plenderleath utterly crushed by intelligence that must be more terrible to me than any other, I rose to the occasion in a manner very surprising and gratifying to myself. "Quick! Up, man! This is no time for delay," I exclaimed. "For God's sake stir yourself. We should be half way to Petersham by now. There has been foul play here. Mr. Sorrell's life may be in danger, if not already sacrificed. Rouse yourself, sir, I beg." He looked at me wonderingly, shook his head, and murmured something about my being upon the wrong tack altogether. He then braced himself to face the situation, and prepared to accompany me to Petersham. Upon the way to Waterloo, we wired for a detective from Scotland Yard to follow us, and in less than another hour were driving from Richmond to Oak Lodge. Then, but not till then, did Mr. Plenderleath explain to me his views and fears, which came like a thunderclap. "Your ardour and generous eagerness, dear sir, to succour those in peril, almost moves me to tears," he began; "but these intentions are futile, or I am no man of law. It is my clerk, Walter Sorrell, we must seek, truly; but not where you would seek him. _He_ is the thief, Mr. Lott--I am convinced of that. I saw no reason last night to fear any danger from without, and I hinted as much. My only care at any time was the man of questionable morals, who has recently gone to his rest. No; Sorrell has succumbed to the temptation, and it is upon my head that the punishment falls." He was terribly prostrated, talked somewhat wildly of such recompense as lay within his powers, and appeared to have relinquished all hopes of my ever coming by my property again. This plain solution of the theft had honestly never occurred to me, until advanced with such certainty by my companion. The affair, in truth, appeared palpable enough to the meanest comprehension, and I said nothing further about violence or possible loss of life. Even more unquestionable seemed the solicitor's explanation when we reached Petersham, and heard what the Prescotts had to tell us. The local Inspector of Police and two subordinates were already upon the scene, but had done nothing much beyond walk up and down on a flower-bed outside the drawing-room window, and then re-enter the house. Sarah Prescott's elaboration of the telegram was briefly this:-- She had lighted a fire in a comfortable bedroom on the upper floor, and, upon asking the young man to come and see it, was surprised to learn he proposed sitting up through the night. "My husband," said Mrs. Prescott, "did not like the hearing of this, and was for watching the gentleman from the garden just to see that he meant no harm; but I over-persuaded him from such foolishness, as I thought it. The last thing before going to my bed, I brought the gent a scuttle of coals and some spirits and hot water. He was then reading a book he had fetched down from that book-case, and said that he should do well now, what with his pipe and the things I'd got for him. He gave me 'good-night' as nice as ever I heard a gentleman say it; then I heard him lock the door on the inside as I went away. This morning, at seven o'clock, I fetched him a cup of tea and some toast I'd made. The door was wide open, so was the window, and the bag that stood on the table last night had gone. The gent wasn't there either, of course." Long we talked after this statement, waiting for the detective from London to come. Continually some one or other of the men assembled let his voice rise with the interest of the conversation. Then Mrs. Prescott would murmur 'hush,' and point upwards to where the silent dead was lying. A careful scrutiny of the drawing-room showed that Sorrell's vigil had been a short one. The fire had not been made up after Mrs. Prescott left the watcher; a novel, open at page five, lay face downwards upon the table; a pipe of tobacco, which had only just been lighted and then suffered to go out, was beside it, together with a tumbler of spirit-and-water, quite full, and evidently not so much as sipped from. The defaulter's hat and coat were gone from their place in the hall, as also his stick. Mrs. Prescott had picked up a silk neckerchief in the passage that led to the drawing-room from the hall. A chair was overturned in the middle of the room; but beyond this no sign of anything untoward could be found. A small seedy-looking man from London soon afterwards arrived, and quickly and quietly made himself master of the situation so far as it was at present developed. The Prescotts and their information interested him chiefly. After hearing all they could tell him he examined the room for himself, attaching enormous importance to a trifle that had escaped our attention. This was a candle by the light of which Walter Sorrell read his book. It had evidently burned for some time after the room was deserted, but not down to the socket. The grease had guttered all upon one side, and a simple experiment showed the cause. Lighting another candle and placing it on the same spot, it burned steadily until both window and door were opened. Then, however, the flame flickered in the draught thus set up; the grease began to gutter, and the candle threatened to go out at any moment. "What do you gather from that?" I inquired of the detective. "This," he answered; "taking account of the open window and door, the overturned chair and the candle left burning, it's clear enough that when the gent did go out, he went in the devil of a hurry, made a bolt, in fact, as though some one was on his track at the very start. There's no one else in the house, you say?" "Only the blessed dead," said Mr. Plenderleath. But I thought involuntarily of what I had seen the preceding evening. Could it be that some horrid vision had appeared in the still hours of night, and that, eager for his employer's welfare, even in such a terrible moment, the young man had seized my wealth and leapt out into the dark night rather than face the dire and monstrous phantom? If so, what had become of him? The detective made no further remarks, and refused to answer any questions, though he asked several. Then, after a long and fruitless search in the grounds and meadowland adjacent, he returned to town, his pocket-book well filled with information. A discovery of possible importance was made soon afterwards. The robbery and all its known circumstances had got wind in the neighbourhood, and now a labourer, working by the Thames (which is distant from Petersham about five hundred yards) appeared, bearing the identical leathern bag which had been stolen. He had found it empty, stranded in some sedges by the river's brim. Fired by the astuteness of him who had just returned to town, I inquired which way the tide was running last evening. But, upon learning, no idea of any brilliance presented itself to me. There was nothing to be done at Petersham; the scamp and his ill-gotten possessions must be far enough away by this time; at least Mr. Plenderleath said so, and I now returned to London with him. All for the present then was over. All my suddenly acquired wealth had vanished, and I was a poor clerk again. Yet how infinitely happier might I consider myself now than in the past. "It may please God," I said to myself, "of His mercy to yet return perhaps as much as half of this good money; but it will not please Him to restore my terrible relation--that I am convinced about." Upon first recalling my coming trip to Scotland I was minded to get excused of it, but quickly came to the conclusion that nothing better could have happened to me just now than a long journey upon other affairs than my own. It would take me out of myself, and give my wife and child a chance of recovering from the grief they must certainly be in upon hearing the sad news. I wrote therefore to them on returning to my office, dined in the city, and finally repaired to Euston. At ten minutes to nine o'clock the "Flying Scotsman" steamed from the station, bearing with it, among other matters, a first-class carriage of which I was the sole occupant after leaving Rugby. I had books and newspapers, bought from force of habit, but was not likely to read them, for my mind contained more than sufficient material to feed upon. Very much of a trying character occupied my brains as I sat and listened to my flying vehicle. Now it roared like thunder as we rushed over bridges, now screamed triumphantly as we whirled past silent, deserted stations. Anon we went with a crash through archways, and once, with gradually slackening speed and groaning breaks, shrieked with impatience at a danger signal that barred the way. I watched the oil in the bottom of the lamp above me dribble from side to side with every oscillation of the train, and the sight depressed me beyond measure. What irony of fate was this! Yesterday the London and North-Western Railway meant more than half my entire fortune; now the stoker who threw coals into the great fiery heart of the engine had more interest in the Company than I! Overcome with these gloomy thoughts, I drew around the lamp that lighted my carriage a sort of double silken shutter, and endeavoured to forget everything in sleep, if it were possible. Sleep is as a rule not only possible but necessary to me after ten o'clock in the evening, and I soon slumbered soundly in spite of my tribulation. Upon waking with a start I found I was no longer alone. The train was going at a tremendous pace; one of the circular curtains I had drawn about the lamp had been pulled up, leaving me in the shade, but lighting the other man who looked across from the further corner in which he was sitting, and smiled at my surprise. It was Joshua Beakbane. I never experienced greater agony than in that waking moment, and until the man spoke, thereby convincing me by the tones of his voice that he was no spirit my mental suffering passes possibility of description in words. "A fellow-traveller need not surprise you, sir," he said. "I got in at Crewe, and you were sleeping so soundly that I did not wake you. I took the liberty of reading your evening paper, however, and also gave myself a little light." He was alive, and had quite failed to recognize me. I thanked him in as gruff a voice as I could assume and looked at my watch. We had been gone from Crewe above half an hour, and should be due at Wigan, our next stopping-place, in about twenty minutes. Joshua Beakbane was a tall, heavily-built man, with a flat, broad face, and a mouth that hardly suggested his great strength of purpose. His heavy moustache was inclined to reddishness, and his restless eyes had also something of red in them. He was clad in a loud tweed, with ulster and hat of the same material. The man had, moreover, aged much since I last saw him about five years ago. Finding me indisposed to talk, he took a portmanteau from the hat-rail above him, unstrapped a railway rug, wound it about his lower limbs, and then fell to arranging such brushes, linen, and garments as the portmanteau contained. My benumbed senses were incapable of advancing any reason for what I saw. Why had this man seen fit to declare himself dead? What was his business in the North? Was it possible that he could be in league with the runaway clerk? Had I in reality seen him lurking in the house at Petersham? An explanation to some of these difficulties was almost immediately forthcoming--as villainous and shameful an explanation as ever unfortunate man stumbled upon. My enemy suddenly started violently, and glancing up, I found him staring with amazement and discomfort in his face at a paper that he held. Seeing me looking at him, he smothered his expression of astonishment and laughed. "An infernal clerk of mine," he said, "has been using my business documents as he does my blotting-paper. He'll pay for this to-morrow." For a brief moment Joshua Beakbane held the paper to the light, and what had startled him immediately did no less for me: it was a certain pencil portrait of the man himself on the back of a London and North-Western railway share certificate. Some there are who would have tackled this situation with ease and perhaps come well out of it; but to me, that am a small and shiftless being at my best, the position I now found myself in was quite intolerable. I would have given half my slender annual salary for a stiff glass of brandy-and-water. The recent discovery paralyzed me. I made no question that Joshua Beakbane had at least his share of the plunder with him in the portmanteau; but how to take advantage of the fact I could not imagine. Silence and pretended sleep were the first moves that suggested themselves. A look or word or hint that could suggest to the robber I remotely fathomed his secret, would doubtless mean for me a cut throat and no further interest in "The Flying Scotsman." Wigan was passed and Preston not far distant when I bethought me of a plan that would, like enough, have occurred to any other in my position an hour earlier. I might possibly get a message on to the telegraph wires and have Joshua Beakbane stopped when he least expected such a thing. I wrote therefore on a leaf of my pocket-book, but did so in trembling, for should the man I was working to overthrow catch sight of the words, even though he might not guess who I really was, he would at least take me for a detective in disguise, and all must then be over. Thus I worded my telegram:-- "_Prepare to make big arrest at Carlisle. Small man will wave hand from first-class compartment. Flying Scotsman._" For me this was not bad. I doubled it up, put a sovereign in it, wrote on the outside--"Send this at all hazards," and prepared to dispose of it as best I might at Preston. Then fresh terrors held me on every side. Would the robber by any unlucky chance be getting out at the next station? I made bold to ask him. He answered that Carlisle was his destination, and much relieved, I trusted that it might be so for some time. At Preston I scarcely waited for the train to stop before leaping to the platform--as luck would have it on the foot of a sleepy porter. He swore in the Lancashire dialect, and I pressed my message into his hand. I was already back in the carriage again when the fool--I can call him nothing less strong--came up to the window, held my communication under Joshua Beakbane's eye, and inquired what he was to do with it. "It is a telegram to Glasgow," I told him, with my knees knocking together. "It _must_ go. There's a sovereign inside for the man who sends it." The dunder-headed fellow now grasped my meaning and withdrew, tolerably wide awake. Joshua Beakbane showed himself deeply interested in this business, and knowing what I did, it was clear to me from the searching questions he put that his suspicions were violently aroused. The lie to the railway-porter was, so far as my memory serves me, the only one I ever told in my life. Whether it was justified by circumstances I will not presume to decide. But to Joshua Beakbane I spoke the unvarnished truth concerning my trip northward. The pending trial at Glasgow had some element of interest in it; and my half-brother slowly lost the air of mistrust with which he had regarded me as I laid before him the documents relating to my mission. The journey between Preston and Carlisle occupied a trifle more than two hours, though to me it appeared unending. A thousand times I wondered if my message had yet flashed past us in the darkness, and reflected how, on reaching Carlisle, I might best preserve my own safety and yet advance the ends of justice. As we at last began to near the station Joshua Beakbane strapped his rug to his portmanteau, unlocked the carriage-door with a private key he now for the first time produced, and made other preparations for a speedy exit. Upon my side of the train he would have to alight, and now, on looking eagerly from the carriage-window, though still some distance outside the station, I believed I could see a group of dark-coated men under the gas-lamps we were approaching. Leaning out of the train I waved my hand frantically to them. The next moment I was dragged back from inside. "What are you doing?" my companion demanded. "Signalling to friends," I answered boldly, and there must have been some chord in my voice that awoke old memories and new suspicions, for Beakbane immediately looked out of the window, saw the police, and turned upon me like a tiger. "My God! I know you now," he yelled. "So you venture it at last?--then you shall have it." He hurled himself at me; his big white hands closed like an iron collar round my neck; his thumbs pressed into my throat. A red mist filled my eyes, my brains seemed bursting through my skull; I believed the train must have rushed right through the station, and that he and I were flying into the lonely night once more. Then I became dimly conscious of a great wilderness of faces from the past staring at me, and all was blank. What followed I afterwards learned when slowly coming back to life again in the waiting-room at Carlisle. Upon the police rushing to the carriage, Beakbane dashed me violently from him and jumped through that door of the compartment which was furthest from his pursuers. This he had just time to lock after him before he vanished into the darkness. But for the intervention of Providence, in the delay he thus caused the man might have escaped, at least, for that night. He successfully threaded his way through a wilderness of motionless trucks and other rolling-stock. He then made for an engine-house, and having once passed it, would have climbed down a bank and so gained temporary safety. But at the moment he ran across the mouth of this shed an engine was moving from it, and before he could alter his course the locomotive knocked him down, pinned him to the rails, and slowly crushed over him. It was done in a moment, and his cry brought the police, who, at the moment of the accident, were wandering through the station in fruitless search. A doctor was now with Joshua Beakbane, but no human skill could even prolong life for the unfortunate man, and he lay dying as I staggered to my feet and entered the adjacent room where they had arranged a couch for him on the ground. He was unconscious as I took the big white hand that but a few minutes before had been choking the life out of me; and soon afterwards, with an awful expression of pain, he expired. As may be supposed I needed much care myself, after this frightful ordeal, and it was not until the following day at noon that my senses once more began to thoroughly define themselves. Then, upon an inquiry into the papers and property of the dead man, I found that all the missing sources of my fortune, with no exception, had been in his possession. Sorrell was thus to my mind proved innocent, and I shrewdly suspected that the unhappy young fellow had fallen a victim to this wretched soul, who was now himself dead. I was fortunately able to proceed to Glasgow in the nick of time, to attend to my employer's business there. Upon returning to London, my arrival in Mr. Plenderleath's office with the missing fortune, created no less astonishment in his mind than that which filled my own, when I learned how young Sorrell had been found alive and was fast recovering from his injuries. Let me break off here one moment to say that if I appear to have treated my half-brother's appalling death with cynical brevity, it is through no lack of feeling in the matter, but rather through lack of space. At six o'clock in the morning, and about an hour after the time that Joshua Beakbane breathed his last, he then having fasted about three-and-thirty hours, Walter Sorrell was found gagged and tied, hand and foot, to the wall of a mean building, situate in a meadow not far distant from Oak Lodge. With his most unpleasing experiences I conclude my narrative. After Mrs. Prescott's departure on the night of the robbery, he had read for about ten minutes, when, suddenly glancing up from his book, he saw, standing staring in at the window, the identical man whose portrait I had drawn for him. Starting up, convinced that what he had seen was no spirit, he unfastened the window and leapt into the garden only to find nothing. Returning, he had hastily left the drawing-room to get his stick, hat, and coat. He was scarcely a moment gone, and, on coming back, found Joshua Beakbane already with the bag and its contents in his hands. Sorrell rushed across the room to stay the other's escape; but too late--he had already rushed through the window. Grasping his heavy stick, the young man followed, succeeded in keeping the robber in sight, and finally closed with him, both falling violently into a bush of rhododendrons. Here an accomplice came to Beakbane's aid, and between them they soon had Sorrell senseless and a prisoner. He remembered nothing further, till coming to himself in the fowl-house, where he was ultimately found. His antagonists evidently carried him between them to this obscure hiding-place; and there he had soon starved but for his fortunate discovery. The said accomplice has never been found; it wants neither him, however, nor yet that other ally who sent the telegram from Newmarket, to tell us how Joshua Beakbane plotted to steal my fortune, three-fourths of which for the asking should have been his. I regained my health more quickly than might be supposed, and young Sorrell was even a shorter time recovering from his starvation and bruises. I gave the worthy lad a thousand pounds, and much good may it do him. The portrait of Joshua Beakbane, on the back of that London and North-Western railway share certificate, is still in my possession, and hangs where all may see it in the library of my new habitation. I now live far away on the coast of Cornwall where the great waves roll in, straight from the heart of the Atlantic, where the common folk of the district make some stir when I pass them by, and where echoes from mighty London reverberate but peacefully in newspapers that are often a week old before I see them. THE END. _R. Clay and Sons, London and Bungay._ 
54195	----	book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.) +-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ GRIT OR The Young Boatman of Pine Point BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "THE YOUNG ACROBAT," "THE STORE BOY," "THE TIN BOX," "TOM TRACY," "SAM'S CHANCE," "ONLY AN IRISH BOY," "JOE'S LUCK," AND FORTY-NINE OTHER RATTLING GOOD STORIES OF ADVENTURE PUBLISHED IN THE MEDAL LIBRARY NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS GRIT. CHAPTER I. GRIT. "Grit!" "Well, mother, what is it?" The speaker was a sturdy, thick-set boy of fifteen, rather short for his age, but strongly made. His eyes were clear and bright, his expression was pleasant, and his face attractive, but even a superficial observer could read in it unusual firmness and strength of will. He was evidently a boy whom it would not be easy to subdue or frighten. He was sure to make his way in the world, and maintain his rights against all aggression. It was the general recognition of this trait which had led to the nickname, "Grit," by which he was generally known. His real name was Harry Morris, but even his mother had fallen into the habit of calling him Grit, and his own name actually sounded strange to him. "Well, mother, what is it?" he asked again, as his mother continued to look at him in silence, with an expression of trouble on her face. "I had a letter this morning, Grit." "From--_him_?" "Yes, from your father." "Don't call him my father!" said the boy hastily. "He isn't my father." "He is your stepfather--and my husband," said Mrs. Morris soberly. "Yes, worse luck for you! Well, what does he say?" "He's coming home." An expression of dismay quickly gathered on the boy's face. "How can that be? His term isn't out." "It is shortened by good behavior, and so he comes out four months before his sentence would have expired." "I wouldn't have him here, mother," said Grit earnestly. "He will only worry and trouble you. We are getting on comfortably now without him." "Yes, thanks to my good, industrious boy." "Oh, don't talk about that," said Grit, who always felt embarrassed when openly praised. "But it is true, Grit. But for the money you make in your boat, I might have to go to the poorhouse." "You will never go while I live, mother," said Grit quickly. "No, Grit, I feel sure of that. It seems wicked to rejoice in your father's misfortune and disgrace----" "Not my father," interrupted Grit. "Mr. Brandon, then. As I was saying, it seems wicked to feel relieved by his imprisonment, but I can't help it." "Why should you try to help it? He has made you a bad husband, and only brought you unhappiness. How did you ever come to marry him, mother?" "I did it for the best, as I thought, Grit. I was left a widow when you were four years old. I had this cottage, to be sure, and about two thousand dollars, but the interest of that sum at six per cent. only amounted to a hundred and twenty dollars, and I was not brave and self-reliant like some, so when Mr. Brandon asked me to marry him, I did so, thinking that he would give us a good home, be a father to you, and save us from all pecuniary care or anxiety." "You were pretty soon undeceived, mother." "No, not soon. Your stepfather had a good mercantile position in Boston, and we occupied a comfortable cottage in Newton. For some years all went well, but then I began to see a change for the worse in him. He became fond of drink, was no longer attentive to business, picked up bad associates, and eventually lost his position. This was when you were ten years of age. Then he took possession of my little capital and went into business for himself. But his old habits clung to him, and of course there was small chance of success. He kept up for about a year, however, and then he failed, and the creditors took everything----" "Except this house, mother." "Yes, this house was fortunately settled upon me, so that my husband could not get hold of it. When we were turned out of our home in Newton, it proved a welcome refuge for us. It was small, plain, humble, but still it gave us a home." "It has been a happy home, mother--that is, ever since Mr. Brandon left us." "Yes; we have lived plainly, but I have had you, and you have always been a comfort to me. You were always a good boy, Grit." "I'm not quite an angel, mother. Ask Phil Courtney what he thinks about it," said Grit, smiling. "He is a bad, disagreeable boy," said Mrs. Brandon warmly. "So I think, mother; but Phil, on the other hand, thinks I am a low, vulgar boy, unworthy of associating with him." "I don't want you to associate with him, Grit." "I don't care to, mother; but we are getting away from the subject. How did Mr. Brandon behave after you moved here?" "He did nothing to earn money, but managed to obtain liquor at the tavern, and sometimes went off for three or four days or a week, leaving me in ignorance of his whereabouts. At last he did not come back at all, and I heard that he had been arrested for forgery, and was on trial. The trial was quickly over, and he was sentenced to imprisonment for a term of years. I saw him before he was carried to prison, but he treated me so rudely that I have not felt it my duty to visit him since. Gradually I resumed your father's name, and I have been known as Mrs. Morris, though my legal name of course is Brandon." "It is a pity you ever took the name, mother," said Grit hastily. "I agree with you, Grit; but I cannot undo the past." "The court ought to grant you a divorce from such a man." "Perhaps I might obtain one, but it would cost money, and we have no money to spend on such things." "If you had one," said Grit thoughtfully, "Mr. Brandon would no longer have any claim upon you." "That is true." "You said you had a letter from him. When did you receive it?" "While you were out, this morning. Mr. Wheeler saw it in the post-office, and brought it along, thinking we might not have occasion to call." "May I see the letter, mother?" "Certainly, Grit; I have no secrets from you." Mrs. Morris--to call her by the name she preferred--took from the pocket of her dress a letter in a yellow envelope, which, however, was directed in a neat, clerky hand, for Mr. Brandon had been carefully prepared for mercantile life, and had once been a bookkeeper, and wrote a handsome, flowing hand. "Here it is, Grit." Grit opened the letter, and read as follows: "'---- PRISON, May 10. "MY AFFECTIONATE WIFE: I have no doubt you will be overjoyed to hear that my long imprisonment is nearly over, and that on the fifteenth, probably, I shall be set free, and can leave these cursed walls behind me. Of course, I shall lose no time in seeking out my loving wife, who has not deigned for years to remember that she has a husband. You might at least have called now and then, to show some interest in me.' "Why should you?" ejaculated Grit indignantly. "He has only illtreated you, spent your money, and made you unhappy." "You think, then, I was right in staying away, Grit?" asked his mother. "Certainly I do. You don't pretend to love him?" "No, I only married him at his urgent request, thinking I was doing what was best for you. It was a bad day's work for me. I could have got along much better alone." "Of course you could, mother. Well, I will read the rest: "'However, you are my wife still, and owe me some reparation for your long neglect. I shall come to Pine Point as soon as I can, and it is hardly necessary to remind you that I shall be out of money, and shall want you to stir round and get me some, as I shall want to buy some clothes and other things." "How does he think you are to supply him with money, when he has left you to take care of yourself all these years?" again burst from Grit's indignant lips. He read on: "'How is the cub? Is he as independent and saucy as ever? I am afraid you have allowed him to do as he pleases. He needs a man's hand to hold him in check and train him up properly.'" "Heaven help you if Mr. Brandon is to have the training of you, Grit!" exclaimed his mother. "He'll have a tough job if he tries it!" said Grit. "He'll find me rather larger and stronger than when he went to prison." "Don't get into any conflict with him, Grit," said his mother, a new alarm seizing her. "I won't if I can help it, mother; but I don't mean to have him impose upon me." CHAPTER II. THE YOUNG BOATMAN. Pine Point was situated on the Kennebec River, and from its height overlooked it, so that a person standing on its crest could scan the river for a considerable distance up and down. There was a small grove of pine-trees at a little distance, and this had given the point its name. A hundred feet from the brink stood the old-fashioned cottage occupied by Mrs. Morris. It had belonged, in a former generation, to an uncle of hers, who, dying unmarried, had bequeathed it to her. Perhaps half an acre was attached to it. There had been more, but it had been sold off. When Grit and his mother came to Chester to live--it was in this township that Pine Point was situated--she had but little of her two thousand dollars' remaining, and when her husband was called to expiate his offense against the law in prison, there were but ten dollars in the house. Mrs. Morris was fortunate enough to secure a boarder, whose board-money paid nearly all their small household expenses for three years, the remainder being earned by her own skill as a dressmaker; but when the boarder went to California, never to return, Grit was already thirteen years old, and hit upon a way of earning money. On the opposite bank of the Kennebec was the village of Portville, but there was no bridge at that point. So Grit bought a boat for a few dollars, agreeing to pay for it in instalments, and established a private ferry between the two places. His ordinary charge for rowing a passenger across--the distance being half a mile--was ten cents; but if it were a child, or a poor person, he was willing to receive five, and he took parties of four at a reduction. It was an idea of his own, but it paid. Grit himself was rather surprised at the number of persons who availed themselves of his ferry. Sometimes he found at the end of the day that he had received in fares over a dollar, and one Fourth of July, when there was a special celebration in Portville, he actually made three dollars. Of course, he had to work pretty hard for it, but the young boatman's arms were strong, as was shown by his sturdy stroke. Grit was now fifteen, and he could reflect with pride that for two years he had been able to support his mother in a comfortable manner, so that she had wanted for nothing--that is, for nothing that could be classed as a comfort. Luxuries he had not been able to supply, but for them neither he nor his mother cared. They were content with their plain way of living. But if his stepfather were coming home, Grit felt that his income would no longer be adequate to maintain the household. Mr. Brandon ought to increase the family income, but, knowing what he and his mother did of his ways, he built no hope upon that. It looked as if their quiet home happiness was likely to be rudely broken in upon by the threatened invasion. "Well, mother," said Grit, "I must get to work." "You haven't finished your dinner, my son." "Your news has spoiled my appetite, mother. However, I dare say I'll make up for it at supper." "I'll save a piece of meat for you to eat then. You work so hard that you need meat to keep up your strength." "I haven't had to work much this morning, mother, worse luck! I only earned twenty cents. People don't seem inclined to travel to-day." "Never mind, Grit. I've got five dollars in the house." "Save it for a rainy day, mother. The day is only half over, and I may have good luck this afternoon." As Grit left the house with his quick, firm step, Mrs. Morris looked after him with blended affection and pride. "What a good boy he is!" she said to herself. "He is a boy that any mother might be proud of." And so he was. Our young hero was not only a strong, manly boy, but there was something very attractive in his clear eyes and frank smile, browned though his skin was by constant exposure to the sun and wind. He was a general favorite in the town, or, rather, in the two towns, for he was as well known in Portville as he was in Chester. I have said he was a general favorite, but there was one at least who disliked him. This was Phil Courtney, a boy about his own age, the son of an ex-president of the Chester bank, a boy who considered himself of great consequence, and socially far above the young boatman. He lived in a handsome house, and had a good supply of pocket-money, though he was always grumbling about his small allowance. It by no means follows that money makes a boy a snob, but if he has any tendency that way, it is likely to show itself under such circumstances. Now, it happened that Phil had a cousin staying at his house as a visitor, quite a pretty girl, in whose eyes he liked to appear to advantage. As Grit reached the shore, where he had tied his boat, they were seen approaching the same point. "I wonder if Phil is going to favor me with his patronage," thought Grit, as his eyes fell upon them. "Here, you boatman!" called out Phil, in a tone of authority. "We want to go over to Portville." Grit's eyes danced with merriment, as he answered gravely: "I have no objection to your going." The girl laughed merrily, but Phil frowned, for his dignity was wounded by Grit's flippancy. "I am not in the habit of considering whether you have any objection or not," he said haughtily. "Don't be a goose, Phil!" said his cousin. "The boy is in fun." "I would rather he would not make fun of me," said Phil. "I won't, then," said Grit, smiling. "Ahem! you may convey us across," said Phil. "If you please," added the young lady, with a smile. "She is very good-looking, and five times as polite as Phil," thought Grit, fixing his eyes admiringly upon the pretty face of Marion Clarke, as he afterward learned her name to be. "I shall be glad to have you as a passenger," said our hero, but he looked at Marion, not at Phil. "Thank you." "If you've got through with your compliments," said Phil impatiently, "we'd better start." "I am ready," said Grit. "May I help you in?" he asked of Marion. "Yes, thank you." "It is quite unnecessary. I can assist you," said Phil, advancing. But he was too late, for Marion had already availed herself of the young boatman's proffered aid. "Thank you," said Marion again, pleasantly, as she took her seat in the stern. "Why didn't you wait for me?" demanded Phil crossly, as he took his seat beside her. "I didn't want to be always troubling you, cousin Phil," said Marion, with a coquettish glance at Grit, which her cousin did not at all relish. "Don't notice him so much," he said, in a low voice. "He's only a poor boatman." "He is very good-looking, I think," said Marion. Grit's back was turned, but he heard both question and answer, and his cheeks glowed with pleasure at the young lady's speech, though it was answered by a contemptuous sniff from Phil. "I don't admire your taste, Marion," he said. "Hush, he'll hear you," she whispered. "What's his name?" By way of answering, Phil addressed Grit in a condescending tone. "Well, Grit, how is business to-day?" "Rather quiet, thank you." "You see, he earns his living by boating, explained Phil, with the manner of one who was speaking of a very inferior person. "How much have you earned now?" he asked further. "Only twenty cents," answered Grit; "but I suppose," he added, smiling, "I suppose you intend to pay me liberally." "I mean to pay you your regular fare," said Phil, who was not of a liberal disposition. "Thank you; I ask no more." "Do you row across often?" asked Marion. "Sometimes I make eight or ten trips in a day. On the Fourth of July I went fifteen times." "How strong you must be!" "Pooh! I could do more than that," said Phil loftily, unwilling that Grit should be admired for anything. "Oh, I know you're remarkable," said his cousin dryly. Just then the wind, which was unusually strong, took Phil's hat, and it blew off to a considerable distance. "My hat's off!" exclaimed Phil, in excitement. "Row after it, quick. It's a new Panama, and cost ten dollars." CHAPTER III. THE LOST HAT. Grit complied with the request of his passenger, and rowed after Phil's hat. But there was a strong current, and it was not without considerable trouble that he at last secured it. But, alas! the new hat, with its bright ribbon, was well soaked when it was fished out of the water. "It's mean," ejaculated Phil, lifting it with an air of disgust. "Just my luck." "Are you so unlucky, then?" asked his cousin Marion, with a half smile. "I should say so. What do you call this?" "A wet hat." "How am I ever to wear it? It will drip all over my clothes." "I think you had better buy a common one in Portville, and leave this one here to dry." "How am I going round Portville bareheaded?" inquired Phil crossly. "Shall I lend you my hat?" asked Marion. "Wouldn't I look like a fool, going round the streets with a girl's hat on?" "Well, you are the best judge of that," answered Marion demurely. Grit laughed, as the young lady glanced at him with a smile. "What are you laughing at, you boatman?" snarled Phil. "I beg your pardon," said Grit good-naturedly; "I know it must be provoking to have your hat wet. Can I help you in any way? If you will give me the money, and remain in the boat, I will run up to Davis, the hatter's, and get you a new hat." "How can you tell my size?" asked Phil, making no acknowledgment for the offer. "Then I will lend you my hat to go up yourself." Phil's lip curled, as if he considered that there would be contamination in such a plebeian hat. However, as Marion declared it would be the best thing to do, he suppressed his disdain, and, without a word of thanks, put Grit's hat on his head. "Come with me, Marion," he said. "No, Phil; I will remain here with Mr. ----," and she turned inquiringly toward the young boatman. "Grit," he suggested. "Mr. Grit," she said, finishing the sentence. "Just as you like. I admire your taste," said Phil, with a sneer. As he walked away, Marion turned to the young boatman. "Is your name really Grit?" she asked. "No; people call me so." "I can understand why," she answered with a smile. "You look--gritty." "If I do, I hope it isn't anything disagreeable," responded our hero. "Oh, no," said Marion; "quite the contrary. I like to see boys that won't allow themselves to be imposed upon." "I don't generally allow myself to be imposed upon." "What is your real name?" "Harry Morris." "I suppose you and Phil know each other very well?" "We have known each other a long time, but we are not very intimate friends." "I don't think Phil has any intimate friends," said Marion thoughtfully. "He--I don't think he gets on very well with the other boys." "He wants to boss them," said Grit bluntly. "Yes; I expect that is it. He's my cousin, you know." "Is he? I don't think you are much alike." "Is that remark a compliment to me--or him?" asked Marion, laughing. "To you, decidedly." "Well, Phil can be very disagreeable when he sets out to be. I should not want to be that, you know." "You couldn't," said Grit, with an admiring glance. "That's a compliment," said Marion. "But you're mistaken. I can be disagreeable when I set out to be. I expect Phil finds me so sometimes." "I wouldn't." "You know how to flatter as well as to row, Mr. Grit. It's true. I tease Phil awfully sometimes." By this time Phil came back with a new hat on his head, holding Grit's in the tips of his fingers, as if it would contaminate him. He pitched it into Grit's lap, saying shortly: "There's your hat." "Upon my word, Phil, you're polite," said his cousin. "Can't you thank Mr. Grit?" "Mr. Grit!" repeated Phil contemptuously. "Of course I thank him." "You're welcome," answered Grit dryly. "Here's your fare!" said Phil, taking out two dimes, and offering them to the young boatman. "Thank you." "Phil, you ought to pay something extra for the loan of the hat," said Marion, "and the delay." With evident reluctance Phil took a nickel from his vest pocket, and offered it to Grit. "No, thank you!" said Grit, drawing back, "I wouldn't be willing to take anything for that. I've found it very agreeable to wait," and he glanced significantly at Marion. "I suppose I am to consider that another compliment," said the young lady, with a coquettish glance. "What, has he been complimenting you?" asked Phil jealously. "Yes, and it was very agreeable, as I got no compliments from you. Good afternoon, Mr. Grit. I hope you will row us back by and by." "I hope so, too," said the young boatman, bowing. "Look here, Marion," said Phil, as they walked away, "you take altogether too much notice of that fellow." "Why do I? I am sure he is a very nice boy." "He is a common working boy!" snapped Phil. "He lives with his mother in a poor hut upon the bluff, and makes his living by boating." "I am sure that is to his credit." "Oh, yes, I suppose it is. So's a ditch-digger engaged in a creditable employment, but you don't treat him as an equal." "I should be willing to treat Grit as an equal. He is very good-looking, don't you think so, Phil?" "Good-looking! So is a cow good-looking." "I've seen some cows that were very good-looking," answered Marion, with a mischievous smile. "I suppose Grit and you are well acquainted." "Oh, I know him to speak to him," returned Phil loftily. "Of course, I couldn't be intimate with such a boy." "I was thinking," said Marion, "it would be nice to invite him round to the house to play croquet with us." "Invite Grit Morris?" gasped Phil. "Yes, why not?" "A boy like him!" "Why, wouldn't he behave well?" "Oh, I suppose he would, but he isn't in our circle." "Then it's a pity he isn't. He's the most agreeable boy I have met in Chester." "You say that only to provoke me." "No, I don't. I mean it." "I won't invite him," said Phil doggedly. "I am surprised that you should think of such a thing." "Propriety, Miss Marion, propriety!" said the young lady, in a tone of mock dignity, turning up the whites of her eyes. "That's just the way my governess used to talk. It's well I've got so experienced a young gentleman to look after me, and see that I don't stumble into any impropriety." Meanwhile, Grit sat in his boat, waiting for a return passenger, and as he waited he thought of the young lady he had just ferried over. "I can't see how such a fellow as Phil Courtney can have such a nice cousin," he said to himself. "She's very pretty, too! She isn't stuck-up, like him. I hope I shall get the chance of rowing them back." He waited about ten minutes, when he saw a gentleman and a little boy approaching the river. "Are you the ferry-boy?" asked the gentleman. "Yes, sir." "I heard there was a boy who would row me across. I want to go to Chester with my little boy. Can you take us over?" "Yes, sir; I shall be happy to do so." "Are you ready to start?" "Yes, sir, just as soon as you get into the boat." "Come, Willie," said the gentleman, addressing his little boy, "won't you like to ride over in the boat?" "Oh, yes, papa," answered Willie eagerly. "I hope you are well acquainted with rowing, and careful," said Mr. Jackson, for this was his name. "I am rather timid about the water, for I can't swim." "Yes, sir, I am as much at home on the water as on the land. I've been rowing every day for the last three years." The gentleman and his little boy sat down, and Grit bent to his oars. CHAPTER IV. A BOY IN THE WATER. Mr. Jackson was a slender, dark-complexioned man of forty, or thereabouts. He was fashionably dressed, and had the air of one who lives in a city. He had an affable manner, and seemed inclined to be social. "Is this your business, ferrying passengers across the river?" he asked of Grit. "Yes, sir," answered the young boatman. "Does it pay?" was the next inquiry--an important one in the eyes of a city man. "Yes, sir; I make more in this way than I could in any other." "How much, for instance?" "From five to seven dollars. Once--it was Fourth of July week--I made nearly ten dollars." "That is a great deal more than I made at your age," said Mr. Jackson. "You look as if you made more now," said Grit, smiling. "Yes," said the passenger, with an answering smile. "I am afraid I couldn't get along on that sum now." "Do you live in the city?" asked Grit, with a sudden impulse. "Yes, I live in what I regard as the city. I mean New York." "It must be a fine place," said the young boatman thoughtfully. "Yes, it is a fine place, if you have money enough to live handsomely. Did you ever hear of Wall Street?" "Yes, sir." "I am a Wall Street broker. I commenced as a boy in a broker's office. I don't think I was any better off than you at your age--certainly I did not earn so much money." "But you didn't have a mother to take care of, did you, sir?" "No; do you?" "Yes, sir." "You are a good boy to work for your mother. My poor boy has no mother;" and the gentleman looked sad. "What is your name?" "Grit." "Is that your real name?" "No, sir, but everybody calls me so." "For a good reason, probably. Willie, do you like to ride in the boat?" "Yes, papa," answered the little boy, his bright eyes and eager manner showing that he spoke the truth. "Grit," said Mr. Jackson, "I see we are nearly across the river. Unless you are due there at a specified time, you may stay out, and we will row here and there, prolonging our trip. Of course, I will increase your pay." "I shall be very willing, sir," said Grit. "My boat is my own, and my time also, and I have no fixed hours for starting from either side." "Good! Then we can continue our conversation. Is there a good hotel in Chester?" "Quite a good one, sir. They keep summer boarders." "That was the point I wished to inquire about. Willie and I have been staying with friends in Portville, but they are expecting other visitors, and I have a fancy for staying a while on your side of the river--that is, if you live in Chester." "Yes, sir; our cottage is on yonder bluff--Pine Point, it is called." "Then I think I will call at the hotel, and see whether I can obtain satisfactory accommodations." "Are you taking a vacation?" asked Grit, with curiosity. "Yes; the summer is a dull time in Wall Street, and my partner attends to everything. By and by I shall return, and give him a chance to go away." "Do people make a great deal of money in Wall Street?" asked Grit. "Sometimes, and sometimes they lose a great deal. I have known a man who kept his span of horses one summer reduced to accept a small clerkship the next. If a broker does not speculate, he is not so liable to such changes of fortune. What is your real name, since Grit is only a nickname?" "My real name is Harry Morris." "Have you any brothers or sisters?" "No, sir; I am an only child." "Were you born here?" "No, sir; I was born in Boston." "Have you formed any plans for the future? You won't be a boatman all your life, I presume?" "I hope not, sir. It will do well enough for the present, and I am glad to have such a chance of earning a living for my mother and myself; but when I grow up I should like to go to the city, and get into business there." "All the country boys are anxious to seek their fortune in the city. In many cases they would do better to stay at home." "Were you born in the city, sir?" asked Grit shrewdly. "No; I was born in the country." "But you didn't stay there." "No; you have got me there. I suppose it was better for me to go to the city, and perhaps it may be for you; but there is no hurry. You wouldn't have a chance to earn six dollars a week in the city, as you say you do here. Besides, it would cost much more for you and your mother to live." "I suppose so, sir. I am contented to remain where I am at present." "Is your father dead?" "Yes, sir." "It is a great loss. Then your mother is a widow?" "I wish she were," said Grit hastily. "But she must be, if your father is dead," said Mr. Jackson. "No, sir; she married again." "Oh, there is a stepfather, then? Don't you and he get along well together?" "There has been no chance to quarrel for nearly five years." "Why?" "Because he has been in prison." "Excuse me if I have forced upon you a disagreeable topic," said the passenger, in a tone of sympathy. "His term of confinement will expire, and then he can return to you." "That is just what troubles me, sir," said Grit bluntly. "We are expecting him in a day or two, and then our quiet life will be at an end." "Will he make things disagreeable for you?" "Yes, sir." "At least, you will not have to work so hard." "Yes, sir. I shall have to work harder, for I shall have to support him, too." "Won't he be willing to work?" "No, sir, he is very lazy, and if he can live without work, he will." "That is certainly unfortunate." "It is worse than having no father at all," said Grit bluntly. "I don't care to have him remain in prison, if he will only keep away from us, but I should be glad if I could never set eyes upon him again." "Well, my boy, you must bear the trial as well as you can. We all have our trials, and yours comes in the shape of a disagreeable stepfather----" He did not finish the sentence, for there was a startling interruption. Mr. Jackson and Grit had been so much engaged in their conversation that they had not watched the little boy. Willie had amused himself in bending over the side of the boat, and dipping his little fingers in the rippling water. With childish imprudence he leaned too far, and fell head first into the swift stream. A splash told the startled father what had happened. "Good Heaven!" he exclaimed, "my boy is overboard, and I cannot swim." He had scarcely got the words out of his mouth than Grit was in the water, swimming for the spot where the boy went down, now a rod or two distant, for the boat had been borne onward by the impulse of the oars. The young boatman was an expert swimmer. It would naturally have been expected, since so much of his time had been spent on the river. He had often engaged in swimming-matches with his boy companions, and there was no one who could surpass him in speed or endurance. He struck out boldly, and, as Willie rose to the surface for the second time, he seized him by the arm, and, turning, struck out for the boat. The little boy struggled, and this made his task more difficulty but Grit was strong and wary, and, holding Willie in a strong grasp, he soon gained the boat. Mr. Jackson leaned over, and drew the boy, dripping, into its safe refuge. "Climb in, too, Grit!" he said. "No, I shall upset it. If you will row to the shore, I will swim there." "Very well." Mr. Jackson was not wholly a stranger to the use of oars, and the shore was very near. In three minutes the boat touched the bank, and almost at the same time Grit clambered on shore. "You have saved my boy's life," said Mr. Jackson, his voice betraying the strong emotion he felt. "I shall not forget it." "Willie is cold!" said the little boy. "Our house is close by," said Grit. "Let us take him there at once, and mother will take care of him, and dry his clothes." The suggestion was adopted, and Mr. Jackson and his two young companions were soon standing at the door of the plain cottage on the bluff. When his mother admitted them, Grit noticed that she looked disturbed, and he seized the first chance to ask her if anything were the matter. "Your stepfather has come!" she answered. CHAPTER V. THE STEPFATHER. Grit was disagreeably surprised at the news of Mr. Brandon's arrival, and he looked about him in the expectation of seeing his unwelcome figure, in vain. "Where is he, mother?" the boy inquired. "Gone to the tavern," she answered significantly. "Did you give him any money?" "I gave him a dollar," she replied sadly. "It is easy to tell how it will be spent." Grit had no time to inquire further at that time, for he was assisting his mother in necessary attentions to their guests, having hurriedly exchanged his own wet clothes for dry ones. Mr. Jackson seemed very grateful to Mrs. Morris for her attention to Willie. She found an old suit of Grit's, worn by him at the age of eight, and dressed Willie in it, while his own wet suit was being dried. The little boy presented a comical spectacle, the suit being three or four sizes too large for him. "I don't like it," he said. "It is too big." "So it is, Willie," said his father; "but you won't have to wear it long. You would catch your death of cold if you wore your wet clothes. How long will it take to dry his clothes, Mrs. Morris?" "Two or three hours at least," answered the widow. "I have a great mind to go back to Portville, and get a change of garments," said the father. "That would be the best thing, probably." "But I should have to burden you with Willie; for I should need to take Grit with me to ferry me across." "It will be no trouble, sir. I will take good care of him." "Willie, will you stay here while I go after your other clothes?" asked Mr. Jackson. Willie readily consented, especially after Grit had brought him a picture-book to look over. Then he accompanied the father to the river, and they started to go across. While they were gone, Mr. Brandon returned to the cottage. His flushed face and unsteady gait showed that he had been drinking. He lifted the latch, and went in. When he saw Willie sitting in a small chair beside his wife, he gazed at the child in astonishment. "Is that the cub?" he asked doubtfully. "Seems to me he's grown smaller since I saw him." "I ain't a cub," said Willie indignantly. "Oh! yer ain't a cub, hey?" repeated Brandon mockingly. "No, I ain't. My name is Willie Jackson, and my papa lives in New York." "What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Brandon?" asked the inebriate. "Where did you pick up this youngster?" His wife explained in a few words. "I thought it wasn't the cub," said Mr. Brandon indistinctly. "Where is he?" "He has gone to row Mr. Jackson over to Portville." "I say, Mrs. B., does he earn much money that way?" "He earns all the money that supports us," answered his wife coldly. "I must see to that," said Brandon unsteadily. "He must bring me his money every night--do you hear, Mrs. B.?--must bring me his money every night." "To spend for liquor, I suppose?" she responded bitterly. "I'm a gentleman. My money--that is, his money is my money. D'ye understand?" "I understand only too well, Mr. Brandon." "That's all right. I feel tired. Guess I'll go and lie down." To his wife's relief he went up-stairs, and was soon stretched out on the bed in a drunken sleep. "I am glad he is out of the way. I should be ashamed to have Mr. Jackson see him," thought Grit's mother, or Mrs. Brandon, as we must now call her. "Who is that man?" asked Willie anxiously. "His name is Brandon," answered Grit's mother. "He isn't a nice man. I don't like him." Mrs. Brandon said nothing. What could she say? If she had spoken as she felt, she would have been compelled to agree with the boy. Yet this man was her husband, and was likely to be to her a daily source of anxiety and annoyance. "I am afraid Grit and he won't agree," she thought anxiously. "Oh I why did he ever come back? For the last five years we have been happy. We have lived plainly and humbly, but our home has been peaceful. Now, Heaven knows what trouble is in store for us." Half an hour later Mr. Jackson and Grit returned. CHAPTER VI. GRIT'S RECOMPENSE. No time was lost in arraying Willie in clothes more suitable for him. The little boy was glad to lay aside Grit's old suit, which certainly was not very becoming to him. "Are we going now, papa?" asked the little boy. "Yes, Willie; but first I must express to this good lady my great thanks for her kindness." "I have done but little, sir," said Mrs. Brandon; "but that little I was very glad to do." "I am sure of that," said the visitor cordially. "If you remain in the neighborhood, I shall hope to see your little boy again, and yourself, also." "I will come," said Willie promptly. "He answers for himself," said his father, smiling, "and he will keep his promise. Now, Grit," he said, turning to the young boatman, "I will ask you to accompany me to the hotel." "Certainly, sir." When they had passed from the cottage, Mr. Jackson turned to the boy and grasped his hand. "I have not yet expressed to you my obligations," he said, with emotion, "for the great service you have done me--the greatest in the power of any man, or boy." "Don't speak of it, sir," said Grit modestly. "But I must. You have saved the life of my darling boy." "I don't know, sir." "But I do. I cannot swim a stroke, and but for your prompt bravery, he would have drowned before my eyes." Grit could not well contradict this statement, for it was incontestably true. "It was lucky I could swim," he answered. "Yes, it was. It seems providential that I should have had with me so brave a boy, when Willie's life was in peril. It will be something that you will remember with satisfaction to the end of your own life." "Yes, sir, there is no doubt of that," answered Grit sincerely. "I shudder to think what a sad blank my own life would have been if I had lost my dear boy. He is my only child, and for this reason I should have missed him the more. Your brave act is one that I cannot fitly reward----" "I don't need any reward, Mr. Jackson," said Grit hastily. "I am sure you do not. You do not look like a mercenary boy. But, for all that, I owe it to myself to see that so great a favor does not go unacknowledged. My brave boy, accept this wallet and what it contains, not as the payment of a debt, but as the first in the series of my acknowledgments to you." As he spoke, he put into the hand of the young boatman a wallet. "I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Jackson," said Grit, "but I am not sure that I ought to take this." "Then let me decide for you," said the broker, smiling. "I am older, and may be presumed to have more judgment." "It will seem as if I took pay for saving Willie from drowning." "If you did, it would be perfectly proper. But you forget that I have had the use of your boat and your own services for the greater part of the afternoon." "I presume you have paid me more than I ask for such services." "Very likely," answered Mr. Jackson. "In fact, outside of my obligations to you, I have formed a good opinion of a boy who works hard and faithfully to support his mother. I was a poor boy once, and I have not forgotten how to sympathize with those who are beginning the conflict with narrow means. Mind, Grit, I don't condole with you. You have good health and strong hands, and in our favored country there is no reason why, when you reach my age, you may not be equally well off." "I wish I might--for mother's sake," said Grit, his face lighting up with hope. "I shall see more of you while I am here, but I may as well say now that I mean to bear you in mind, and wish you to come to me, either here or in the city, when you stand in need of advice or assistance." Grit expressed his gratitude. Mr. Jackson selected a room at the hotel, and promised to take up his quarters there the next day. Then Grit once more took up his oars and ferried Willie and his father across the river. It was not for some time, therefore, that he had a chance to examine the wallet which had been given him. CHAPTER VII. GRIT ASTONISHES PHIL. Grit was not wholly without curiosity, and, as was natural, he speculated as to the amount which the wallet contained. When Mr. Jackson and Willie had left him, he took it out of his pocket and opened it. He extracted a roll of bills and counted them over. There were ten five-dollar bills, and ten dollars in notes of a smaller denomination. "Sixty dollars!" ejaculated Grit, with a thrill of pleasure. "I never was so rich in all my life." He felt that the sum was too large for him to accept, and he was half tempted to run after Mr. Jackson and say so. But quick reflection satisfied him that the generous New Yorker wished him to retain it, and, modest though he was, he was conscious that in saving the little boy's life he had placed his passenger under an obligation which a much larger sum would not have overpaid. Besides, he saw two new passengers walking toward his boat, who doubtless wished to be ferried across the river. They were Phil Courtney and Marion Clarke. "We are just in time, Mr. Grit," said the young lady, smiling. "Yes, my good fellow," said Phil condescendingly, "we will employ you again." "You are very kind," answered Grit, with a smile of amusement. "I like to encourage you," continued Phil, who was not very quick to interpret the looks of others. Grit looked at Marion, and noticed that she, too, looked amused. "Have you had any passengers since we came over?" asked Phil, in a patronizing tone. He was quite ready to employ his old schoolmate, provided he would show proper gratitude, and be suitably impressed by his condescension. "I have been across several times," answered Grit briefly. "And how much have you made now?" asked Phil, with what he intended to pass for benevolent interest. If Phil had been his friend, Grit would not have minded telling him; but he had the pride of self-respect, and he objected to being patronized or condescended to. "I haven't counted up," he answered. "I might have brought my own boat," said Phil, "but I like to encourage you." "Really, Phil, you are appearing in a new character," said Marion. "I never should have taken you for a philanthropist before. I thought you told your mother it would be too much bother to row over in your own boat." "That was one reason," said Phil, looking slightly embarrassed. "Besides, I didn't want to interfere with Grit's business. He is poor, and has to support his mother out of his earnings." This was in bad taste, and Grit chafed against it. "That is true," he said, "but I don't ask any sympathy. I am prosperous enough." "Oh, yes; you are doing well enough for one in your position, I don't doubt. How much would you give, now, to have as much money as I carry in this pocketbook?" asked Phil boastfully. He had just passed his birthday, and had received a present of ten dollars from his father, and five dollars each from his mother and an aunt. He had spent a part of it for a hat and in other ways, but still he had seventeen dollars left. "Perhaps I have as much money," answered Grit quietly. "Oho! That's a good joke," said Phil. "No joke at all," said Grit. "I don't know how much money you have in your pocketbook, but I presume I can show more." Phil's face grew red with anger. He was one of those disagreeable boys who are purse-proud, and he was provoked at hearing such a ridiculous assertion from a poor boy who had to earn his own living. Even Marion regarded Grit with some wonder, for she happened to know how much money her cousin carried, and it seemed to her very improbable that the young boatman should have as much in his possession. "Don't make a fool of yourself, Grit!" said Phil sharply. "Thank you; I don't propose to." "But you are doing it." "How?" "Didn't you say you had more money than I?" "I think I have." "Hear him talk!" said Phil, with a glance of derision. By this time the young boatman's grit was up, if I may use the expression, and he resolved to surprise and mortify his young adversary. "If you are not afraid to test it," he said, "I will leave it to the young lady to decide. Let her count the money in your pocketbook, and I will then give her my wallet for the same purpose." "Done!" said Phil promptly. Marion, wondering a little at Grit's confidence, took her cousin's pocketbook, and counted the contents. "Well, Marion, how much is there?" said Phil exultingly. "Seventeen dollars and thirty-seven cents," was the announcement of the fair umpire. Phil smiled triumphantly. "You didn't think I had so much--eh, Grit?" he said. "No, I didn't," Grit admitted. "Now hand over your wallet." "With pleasure, if Miss Marion will take the trouble," answered the young boatman, with a polite bow. When Marion opened the wallet, and saw the roll of bills, both she and Phil looked astonished. She proceeded to count the bills, however, and in a tone of serious surprise announced: "I find sixty dollars here." "That is right," said Grit quietly, as he received back his wallet, and thrust it into his pocket. Phil hardly knew whether he was more surprised or mortified at this unexpected result. But a thought struck him. "Whose money is that?" he demanded abruptly. "It is mine." "I don't believe it. You are carrying it over to some one in Chester." "Perhaps I am; but, if so, that some one is my mother." "You don't mean to say that you have sixty dollars of your own?" "Yes, I do. You didn't think I had so much money--eh, Phil?" he retorted, with a smile. "I don't believe a word of it," returned Phil crossly. "It is ridiculous that a boy like you should have so much money. It can't be yours." "Do you doubt it, Miss Marion?" asked Grit, turning to the young lady. "No; I believe that it is yours since you say so." "Thank you." "If it is yours, where did you get it?" asked Phil, whose curiosity overcame his mortification sufficiently to induce him to ask the question. "I don't feel called upon to tell you," answered Grit. "Then I can guess." "Very well. If you guess right, I will admit it." "You found it, and won't be long before finding the owner." "You are wrong. The money is mine, and was paid me in the course of business." Phil did not know what to say, but Marion said pleasantly: "Allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Grit, on being so well off. You are richer than either of your passengers. I never had sixty dollars of my own in my life." By this time they had reached the other side of the river, and the two passengers disembarked. "Well, Phil, you came off second best," said his cousin. "I can't understand how the boy came into possession of such a sum of money," said Phil, frowning. "Nor I; but I am sure of one thing." "What is that?" "That he came by it honestly." "Don't be too sure of that," said Phil, shaking his head. "Phil, you are too bad," said Marion warmly. "You seem to have taken an unaccountable prejudice against Grit. I am sure he seems to me a very nice boy." "You're welcome to the young boatman's society," said Phil, with a sneer. "You seem to be fond of low company." "If you call him low company, then perhaps I am. I never met Grit before this morning, but he seems a very polite, spirited boy, and it is certainly to his credit that he supports his mother." "I can tell you something about him that may chill your ardor? His father is in jail." "I heard that it was his stepfather." "Oh, well, it doesn't matter which." "In one sense, no. The boy isn't to blame for it." "No, but it shows of what stock he comes." Meanwhile, Grit, having fastened his boat, made his way to the cottage on the bluff. He wanted to tell his mother of his good fortune. CHAPTER VIII. GRIT PUTS HIS MONEY AWAY. "You seem to be in good spirits, Grit," said his mother, as our hero opened the outside door and entered the room where she sat sewing. "Yes, mother, I have reason to be. Is--is Mr. Brandon home?" "Yes; he is up-stairs lying down," answered Mrs. Brandon, with a sigh. Grit rose and closed the door. "I don't want him to hear what I'm going to tell you," he said. "Mother, I have been very lucky to-day." "I suppose Mr. Jackson was liberal." "I should say he was. Guess how much money I have in this wallet, mother." "Five dollars." "Multiply that by twelve." "You don't mean to say that he gave you sixty dollars?" inquired his mother quickly. "Yes, I do. See here," and Grit displayed the roll of bills. "You are, indeed, in luck, Grit. How much good this money will do us. But I forgot," she added, her expression changing to one of anxious solicitude. "What did you forget, mother?" "That your father--that Mr. Brandon had returned." "What difference will that make, mother? I suppose, of course, it will increase our expenses." "If that were all, Grit." "What is it, then, you fear, mother?" "That he will take this money away from you." "I should like to see him try it," exclaimed Grit, compressing his lips. "He will try it, Grit. He said only an hour ago that you would have to account to him for your daily earnings." "Doesn't he mean to do any work himself?" "I fear not. You know what sort of a man he is, Grit. He probably means to live on what we can earn, and spend his time and what money he can get hold of at the tavern." "And he calls himself a man!" said Grit disdainfully. "I am afraid our quiet, happy life is at an end, Grit," sighed his mother. Grit did not answer for a moment, but he looked stern and determined. Finally, he answered: "I don't want to make any disturbance, mother, or to act improperly, but I feel sure that we ought not to submit to such treatment." "What can we do, Grit?" "If Mr. Brandon cares to stay here we will provide him a home, give him his board, but, as to supplying him with money, we ought not to do it." "I agree with you, Grit, but I don't see how we can help it. Mr. Brandon is a man, and you are only a boy. I don't want you to quarrel with him." "I won't if I can help it. By the way, mother, I don't think it will be prudent to leave all this money in the house." "What can we do with it?" "I will put it out of my hands. Perhaps I had better not tell you what I am going to do with it, for Mr. Brandon might ask you, and it is better that you should be able to tell him that you don't know." "You are right, Grit." "I will attend to that matter at once, mother. I will be back in half or three-quarters of an hour," and the young boatman hurried from the house. He bent his steps to the house of his particular friend, Fred Lawrence, the son of a lawyer in the village. Mr. Lawrence was rated as wealthy by the people in the village, and lived in a house quite as good as Mr. Courtney's, but his son Fred was a very different style of boy. He had no purse-pride, and it never occurred to him that Grit was unfit to associate with, simply because he was poor, and had to earn a living for himself and his mother by ferrying passengers across the Kennebec. In fact, he regarded Grit as his most intimate friend, and spent as much time in his company as their differing engagements would allow. Phil Courtney, though he condescended to Grit, regarded Fred as his social equal, and wished to be intimate with him; but Fred did not fancy Phil, and the latter saw, with no little annoyance, that the young boatman's company was preferred to his. It displayed shocking bad taste on the part of Fred, but he did not venture to express himself to the lawyer's son as he would not scruple to do to the young ferryman. Naturally, when Grit felt the need of advice, he thought of his most intimate friend, and sought the lawyer's house. He met Fred on the way. "Hello, Grit!" said Fred cordially. "Where are you going?" "I was going to your house." "Then turn round, and we will go there." "I can talk with you in the street. I want your advice and help." "My advice is probably very valuable," said Fred, smiling, "considering my age and experience. However, my help you can rely upon, if I can give it." "Did you hear that Mr. Brandon had got home?" asked Grit abruptly. "Your stepfather?" "Yes; I am sorry to say that there is that tie between us. I presume you know where he has spent the last five years?" "Yes," answered Fred. "Of course, I am glad for his sake that he is free; but I am afraid he is going to give us trouble." "How does he appear?" "I have not seen him yet." "How's that?" "He only arrived to-day, and I was absent when he reached home." "Does he mean to live here?" "I am afraid so; and, what is more, I am afraid he means that mother and I shall pay his expenses. He has already told mother that he shall require me to account to him for my daily earnings." "That will be hard on you." "Yes; I need all I can make to pay our daily expenses, and I don't feel like letting mother suffer for the necessaries of life in order to supply Mr. Brandon with money for drink." "You are right there, Grit. I sympathize with you; but how can I help it?" "That is what I am coming to. I want to deposit my money with you--that is, what I don't need to use." "I suppose you haven't much. It might not be well to trust me too far," said Fred, smiling. "I have sixty dollars here, which I would like to put in your hands--that is, all but two dollars." "Sixty dollars! Where on earth did you get so much money, Grit?" asked his friend, opening his eyes wide in astonishment. Grit told the story briefly, and received the warm congratulations of his friend. "You deserve it all, Grit," he said, "for your brave deed." "Don't flatter me, Fred, or I may put on airs like Phil Courtney. But, to come back to business--will you do me this favor?" "Of course, I will. Father has a safe in his office, and I will put the money in there. Whenever you want any of it, you have only to ask me." "Thank you. That will suit me. I shan't break in upon it unless I am obliged to, as I would like to have it in reserve to fall back upon." "Come and take supper with us, Grit, won't you?" asked Fred cordially. "Thank you, Fred; not to-night. I haven't seen Mr. Brandon yet, and I may as well get over the first interview as soon as possible. We shall have to come to an understanding, and it is better not to delay it." "Good night, then; I shall see you to-morrow, for I am going to Portville, and I shall go over in your boat." "Then we can have a chat together. Good night." Meanwhile, Mr. Brandon, having slept off his debauch, had come down-stairs. "Where's the cub?" he asked. "I wish you wouldn't call him by that name," said his wife. "He wouldn't like it." "I shall call him what I please. Hasn't he been in?" "Yes, Grit has been in." "Grit?" "That's a nickname the boys have given him, and as everybody calls him so, I have got into that way." "Oh, well, call him what you like. Has he been in?" "Yes." "Where is he now?" "He went out for a short time. I expect him in every minute." "Did he leave his day's earnings with you?" "No," answered Mrs. Brandon, with a troubled look. "He has the best right to that himself." "Has he, hey? We'll see about that. I, as his stepfather and legal guardian, shall have something to say to that." Mrs. Brandon was not called upon to reply, for the door opened just then, and the young boatman stood in the presence of his worthy stepfather. CHAPTER IX. A LITTLE DISCUSSION. Grit was only ten years old when his stepfather began to serve out his sentence at the penitentiary, and the two had not seen each other since. Instead of the small boy he remembered, Brandon saw before him a boy large and strong for his age, of well-knit frame and sturdy look. Five years had made him quite a different boy. His daily exercise in rowing had strengthened his muscles and developed his chest, so that he seemed almost a young man. Brandon stared in surprise at the boy. "Is that--the cub?" he asked. "I object to that name, Mr. Brandon," said Grit quietly. "You've grown!" said Brandon, still regarding him with curiosity. "Yes, I ought to have grown some in five years." It occurred to Mr. Brandon that it might not be so easy as he had expected to bully his stepson. He resolved at first to be conciliatory. "I'm glad to see you," he said. "It's long since we met." "Yes," answered Grit. He was not prepared to return the compliment, and express pleasure at his stepfather's return. "I'm glad you and your mother have got along so well while I was away." Grit felt tempted to say that they had got along better during Mr. Brandon's absence than when he was with them, but he forbore. He did not want to precipitate a conflict, though, from what his mother had said, he foresaw that one would come soon enough. "Your mother tells me that you make money by your boat," continued Mr. Brandon. "Yes, sir." "That's a good plan. I approve it. How much money have you made to-day, now?" "I have a dollar or two in my pocket," answered Grit evasively. "Very good!" said Brandon, in a tone of satisfaction. "You may as well hand it to me." So the crisis had come! Mrs. Brandon looked at her son and her husband with anxiety, fearing there would be a quarrel, and perhaps something worse. She was tempted to say something in deprecation, but Grit said promptly: "Thank you, Mr. Brandon, but I would prefer to keep the money myself." Brandon was rather taken aback by the boy's perfect coolness and self-possession. "How old are you?" he asked, with a frown. "Fifteen." "Indeed!" sneered Brandon. "I thought, from the way you talked, you were twenty-one. You don't seem to be aware that I am your legal guardian." "No, sir, I was not aware of it." "Then it's time you knew it. Ain't I your stepfather?" "I suppose so," said Grit, with reluctance. "Ha, you admit that, do you? I'm the master of this house, and it's my place to give orders. Your wages belong to me, but if you are obedient and respectful, I will allow you a small sum daily, say five cents." "That arrangement is not satisfactory, Mr. Brandon," said Grit firmly. "Why isn't it?" demanded his stepfather, frowning. "I use my money to support the family." "Did I say anything against it? As the master of the house, the bills come to me to be paid, and therefore I require you to give me every night whatever you may have taken during the day." "Do you intend to earn anything yourself?" asked Grit pointedly; "or do you expect to live on us?" "Boy, you are impertinent," said Brandon, coloring. "Don't provoke Mr. Brandon," said Grit's mother timidly. "We may as well come to an understanding," said Grit boldly. "I am willing to do all I can for you, mother, but Mr. Brandon is able to take care of himself, and I cannot support him, too." "Is this the way you talk to your father, you impertinent boy?" exclaimed Brandon wrathfully. "You are not my father, Mr. Brandon," said Grit coldly. "It is all the same; I am your mother's husband." "That's a different thing." "Once more, are you going to give me the money you have in your pocket?" "No, sir." Brandon looked at Grit, and he felt that it would have given him pleasure to shake the rebellion out of his obstinate stepson, but supper was almost ready, and he felt hungry. He decided that it would be as well to postpone an open outbreak. Grit was in the house, and not likely to run away. "We'll speak of this another time," he said, waving his hand. "You will find, young man, that it is of no use opposing me. Mrs. Brandon, is supper almost ready?" "Nearly," answered his wife, glad to have the subject postponed. "Then serve it as soon as possible," he said, in a lordly tone. "I am to meet a gentleman on business directly afterward." Supper was on the table in fifteen minutes. Mr. Brandon ate with evident enjoyment. Indeed, it was so short a time since he had been restricted to prison fare that he relished the plain but well-cooked dishes which his wife prepared. "Another cup of tea, Mrs. Brandon," he said. "It seems pleasant to be at home again after my long absence." "I shouldn't think he would like to refer to his imprisonment," thought Grit. "I hope soon to be in business," continued Brandon, "and we shall then be able to live in better style. When that time comes I shall be willing to have Grit retain his small earnings, stipulating only that he shall buy his own clothes, and pay his mother, say a dollar and a quarter a week, for board." He said this with the air of a man who considered himself liberal, but neither Grit nor his mother expressed their sense of his generosity. "Of course, just at present," Mr. Brandon proceeded, "I have no money. The minions of the law took from me all I had when they unjustly thrust me into a foul dungeon. For a time, therefore, I shall be compelled to accept Grit's earnings, but it will not be for long." Grit said nothing to this hint, but all the same he determined, whether for a short or a long time, to resist the exactions of his stepfather. As for Brandon, his change of front was induced by the thought that he could accomplish by stratagem what he might have had some difficulty in securing by force. He still had twenty-five cents of the dollar which his wife had given him in the morning. When supper was over he rose, and, putting on his hat, said: "I am going to the village on business. I shall be home in good season. Are you going my way, Grit?" "Not just at present," answered Grit. Mother and son looked at each other when they were alone. "I suppose he's gone to the tavern," said Grit. "Yes, I presume so," said his mother, sighing. "Well, mother, I didn't give up the money." "No, Grit, but he means to have it yet." "He's welcome to it if he can get it," said the boy manfully. "You haven't got the sixty dollars with you?" said his mother anxiously. "No, they are safe. I have kept only two dollars, thinking you might need some groceries." "Yes, I do, Grit. They go off faster, now that we have another mouth to feed." "Suppose you make out a list of what you want, mother, and I will go up to the store this evening. I may as well save Mr. Brandon from temptation." His mother made a list, and Grit, putting it in his pocket, walked up to the village. The groceries, with a pound of steak, cost a dollar and ninety cents. As Grit took the bundles and walked homeward, he thought to himself. "Mr. Brandon wouldn't feel very well repaid for his trouble if he should take all I have left. He ought to be satisfied with free board, without expecting us to supply him with pocket-money besides. I wonder what he would say if he knew how much money I have deposited with Fred Lawrence?" Grit congratulated himself that his stepfather was not likely to make this discovery, but in this he reckoned without his host. Mr. Brandon made the discovery that same evening. How it came about will appear in the next chapter. CHAPTER X. BRANDON LEARNS GRIT'S SECRET. "I had no idea the boy had grown so much," said Brandon to himself, as he directed his course toward the tavern. "I thought he was a little kid, but he's almost as big as I am. He's kind of obstinate, too, but he'll find out who's master before long. It's ridiculous, his expectin' to have the handlin' of all the money that comes into the house. Just as if he had any judgment--a boy of his age." The chances are that Grit's judgment in the matter would have proved better than Brandon's, since the latter proposed to spend a large portion of the money for drink. "I expect the boy makes a good thing out of his boating," resumed Mr. Brandon. "He owned up that he had almost two dollars, and it's likely he earned it all to-day." Presently Brandon reached the tavern, and entered the barroom. He called for whisky, and swallowed it with gusto. "You may charge it to me," said he carelessly; "I'll pay once a week." "We don't care to do business that way," said the barkeeper. "You ain't afraid I won't pay you?" said Brandon, in a tone of affected indignation. "I don't know whether you would or not, but our terms are cash." "Oh, well, if you're so strict as that, take it out of this quarter," said Brandon, throwing his sole remaining coin on the counter. Fifteen cents were returned to him, and in half an hour that sum was also expended at the bar. It might have been supposed that Brandon would be satisfied, but he was not. He made an attempt to obtain another drink on credit, but the barkeeper proved obdurate. Then he engaged in a game of cards, and about half-past nine set out to go home, in a better condition than if he had had more money to spend. "This will never do!" he muttered, in a discontented tone; "I can't be kept so short as this. It is humiliating to think of me, a grown man, going round without a cent in my pocket, while my stepson is reveling in money. I won't have it, and I'll let him understand it." A few feet in front of Brandon two boys were walking. One of them was Phil Courtney, and the other Dick Graham, a poor boy, who, by proper subserviency, had earned a position as chief favorite with his companion. Brandon could not help hearing their conversation. He heard Grit's name mentioned, and this made him listen attentively. "I can't understand where Grit got his money," Phil was saying. "How much did you say he had?" inquired Dick. "Sixty dollars!" "Whew!" Brandon felt like saying "Whew!" too, for his amazement was great, but he wanted to hear more, and remained silent. "Are you sure there were sixty dollars?" "Yes; my cousin Marion counted it." "How did Grit happen to show his money?" "He was boasting that he had more money than I, and I challenged him to show his money." "I suppose he did show more?" "Yes, I had only seventeen dollars. But what I can't understand is, where did a common boatman pick up so much money?" "Perhaps he has been saving for a long time." "Perhaps so, but I don't believe he could save so much," answered Phil. "Perhaps he stole it." Phil didn't believe this, but he would like to have believed it true. "I shouldn't wonder if he did, though I don't know where he could get the chance." "I wonder if he'd lend me five dollars," thought Dick Graham, though he did not care to let Phil know his thought. He resolved to be more attentive to Grit, in the hope of pecuniary favors. Meanwhile, he did not forget that Phil also was well provided. "You were pretty well fixed, too," he said. "I wonder how I'd feel if I had seventeen dollars." "What do I care about seventeen dollars?" said Phil discontentedly, "when a boy like Grit Morris can show more than three times as much." "Oh, well, he'll have to spend it. He won't keep it long. By the way, Phil, will you do me a favor?" "What is it?" asked Phil cautiously. "Won't you lend me two dollars? I want it the worst way. I haven't got a cent to my name." "I can't spare it," said Phil curtly. "It will leave you fifteen----" "I'm going to use it all. Besides, it would be the same as giving it----" "No, I'd pay you back in a week or two." "You've been owing me fifty cents for three months. If you'd paid that up punctually, perhaps I would have lent you. You'd better go to Grit." "He isn't my friend, and I thought you might not like my going to him." "Oh, you can borrow as much as you like of him--the more, the better!" returned Phil, with a laugh. "I'll try it, then. I shall have to pretend to be his friend." "All right. The faster he gets rid of his money, the better it will suit me." Brandon heard no more of the conversation, for the boys turned down a side street. But he had heard enough to surprise him. "Grit got sixty dollars!" he repeated to himself. "Why, the artful young villain! Who'd have thought it? And he coolly refuses to let his father have a cent. He's actually rolling in riches, while I haven't got a penny in my purse. And his mother aids and abets him in it, I'll be bound. It's the blackest ingratitude I ever heard of." What Grit had to be grateful to him for Mr. Brandon might have found it difficult to instance, but he actually managed to work himself into a fit of indignation because Grit declined to commit his money to his custody. Brandon felt very much like a man who has suddenly been informed that a pot of gold was concealed in his back yard. Actually, a member of his family possessed the handsome sum of sixty dollars. How was he to get it into his own hands? That was easier to ask than to answer. As he had said, Grit was a stout, strong boy, nearly his equal in size and strength, and he had already had sufficient acquaintance with his firmness, or obstinacy, as he preferred to call it, to make sure that the boy would not give up the money without a struggle. If now he could get hold of the money by stratagem, it would be easier, and make less disturbance. Where did Grit keep the money? "He may have given it to his mother," thought Brandon. "If so, I can find it in one of her bureau drawers. She always used to keep money there. But it is more likely that the boy keeps it in his own pocket. I know what I'll do. I'll get up in the night, when he and his mother are asleep, and search his pockets. Gad, how astonished he'll look in the morning when he searches for it, and finds it missing!" Brandon was very much amused by this thought, and he laughed aloud. "Sixty dollars'll set me on my feet again," he reflected. "Let me see. I'll go to Boston, and look round, and see if I can't pick up a job of some kind. There isn't anything to do here in this beastly hole. By the way, I wonder where the boy did get so much money. He must find boatin' more profitable than I had any idea of." At this point Brandon entered the little path that led to his wife's cottage. "Mrs. B. is sittin' up," he said, as he saw through the window the figure of his wife in a rocking-chair, apparently occupied with some kind of work. "I'll get her off to bed soon, so that I can have a clear field." Mrs. Brandon looked up when her husband entered, and noticed, with a feeling of relief, that he was sober. That, however, was not owing to any intentional moderation on his part, but to his lack of funds. "Sittin' up for me, Mrs. B.?" asked Brandon. "I generally sit up till past this hour," she answered. "I feel rather tired myself," said Brandon, succeeding in yawning. "It isn't on account of having done any work," thought his wife. "I've been walkin' round considerably, and got tired." "Do you come from the tavern?" asked Mrs. Brandon coldly. "Yes, Mrs. B., I expected to meet a gentleman there on business, but he disappointed me. Where's Grit?" "He has gone to bed. He has got to get up early in the morning, to help me, and then he spends the day in ferrying passengers across the river." "That's a bright idea of Grit's. I approve it. He makes considerable money, doesn't he?" "Considerable for a boy. I don't know what I should do if it were not for Grit." "Just so. But now I'm home, and shall soon get into business. Then you won't need to depend on him. Of course, I shall need a little money to start with." Mrs. Brandon did not reply to this obvious hint. She prepared for bed. An hour later, Brandon, having ascertained that his wife was asleep, left the room cautiously, and stole into Grit's chamber. CHAPTER XI. THE MIDNIGHT VISIT. Grit was not aware that Brandon had discovered his secret, but still was not unprepared for a night visit. As we already know, he had but ten cents left of the two dollars he had reserved, and this coin he put into a small leather purse, which he usually carried. "If Mr. Brandon searches for money, he will be disappointed," he said to himself, with a quiet smile. "He won't find enough to pay him for his trouble." Grit was not anxious enough about his money to keep awake. When, therefore, his stepfather entered his chamber, he was fast asleep. Brandon listened for a moment to the deep breathing of the boy, and felt that there was no need of caution. He therefore boldly advanced, candle in hand, to the bedside. The candle he set on the bureau, and then took up Grit's clothes, which hung over a chair, and proceeded to examine the pockets. His countenance changed as he continued the search. At last he came to the purse, but it felt empty, and he did not open it with much confidence. Thrusting in his finger, he drew out the solitary dime which it contained. "Only ten cents!" he exclaimed, with intense disappointment. "It isn't worth taking. On second thoughts, I'll take it, though, for it will pay for a drink." He pocketed the coin, and resumed his search. "The boy must have a pocketbook somewhere," he muttered. "He wouldn't carry bank-bills in a purse. Where can he keep it?" Once more he explored the pockets of his stepson, but he met with no greater success than before. It is a curious circumstance that sometimes in profound sleep a person seems vaguely aware of the presence of an intruder, and the feeling is frequently strong enough to disturb slumber. Grit was a sound sleeper, but, however we may account for it, whether it was the instinctive feeling I have mentioned, or the glare of the candle, he woke up, and his glance rested on the kneeling figure of his stepfather rummaging his pockets. Instantly Grit realized the situation, and he felt more amused than indignant, knowing how poorly the searcher would be rewarded. Brandon's back was turned to him, and our hero felt inclined to try the effect of a practical joke. In a deep, sepulchral voice, he called out: "What are you doing there?" Brandon, taken by surprise, started as if he had been shot, and sprang to his feet in confusion. Turning to the bed, he saw Grit surveying him calmly. Then his natural hardihood restored his self-possession. "Where do you keep your money, you young cub?" he demanded. "Where do I keep it? I suspect you know well enough. Haven't you looked into my purse?" "Yes, and I only found ten cents." "Did you take it?" asked Grit. "Yes." "Then it's lucky I had no more in it." "Where is the rest of your money?" demanded Brandon. "What do you mean by the rest of my money?" "I mean the sixty dollars you had with you to-day." Grit whistled. "So you heard I had sixty dollars?" he said. "Yes." "It is in a safe place." "Ha! You own that you had so much money. You wanted to keep it from me, did you?" demanded Brandon, with a frown. "Yes, I did," admitted Grit. "Did Phil Courtney tell you I had it?" "No matter how I heard. I know that you are trying to conceal a large sum of money, which ought to be in my hands." "Indeed! How do you make that out?" "I am your stepfather and natural guardian. I am the best person to take care of your money." "I don't think so, and I propose to keep it myself," said Grit firmly. "Do you defy me?" demanded Brandon angrily. "If you call my refusing to give you my own money by that name, then I do." "Boy, you don't know me!" said Brandon, in a tone intended to strike terror into the heart of his stepson. "Hitherto you have had only your mother to look after you, and she has been foolishly indulgent. Now you have a man to deal with. Once more, will you hand me that money?" "I decline," said Grit firmly. "Then on your head be the consequences," said Brandon. "You will hear from me again, and soon." So saying, he stalked majestically from the chamber. "I wonder what he means to do?" thought Grit. But the thought did not keep him awake. CHAPTER XII. GRIT'S MISFORTUNE. The next morning Grit came down to breakfast nearly an hour later than usual. It might have been because he was unusually fatigued, or it may have been on account of his slumbers having been interrupted. When he came down-stairs, he looked at the clock, and realized that he had overslept himself. "I am nearly an hour late, mother," he said. "Why didn't you call me?" "I thought you were tired, Grit, and needed sleep." "Where is Mr. Brandon? I suppose he has not got up!" "Yes, he has had his breakfast and gone out." "He is in a great hurry to spend my ten cents," said Grit, laughing. "What do you mean, Grit?" "I had a visit from him last night," Grit explained. "He rummaged my pockets, and was successful in finding a dime." "Is it possible?" "Why should you be surprised, mother? I was not." "Did he say anything to you?" "Yes; he has found out somehow about the sixty dollars, and he asked me to give it to him." "Oh, Grit, I am afraid there will be trouble," said Mrs. Brandon anxiously. "He won't rest till he gets the money." "Then he won't rest at all," said Grit firmly. "I am afraid you will have to give it to him, Grit." "Not if I know what I am about. No, mother, the money is safe, where he won't find it. I won't tell you, for he might annoy you till you told him." "No, Grit; don't tell me. I would rather not know. How happy we were before he came, and how rich we should feel if this money had come to you before Mr. Brandon came home!" "That is true, mother. It's a shame that he should come home to give us so much trouble." "I can't see how it's all going to end," murmured Mrs. Brandon sadly. "Nor I; but I mean to resist Mr. Brandon till he finds it's of no use trying to appropriate my money. When he finds he can't get anything out of us except a bare living, he may become disgusted and leave us." "He won't do it while he has any hope left. What do you think he has been trying to persuade me to do, Grit?" "I don't know." "He wants me to mortgage this cottage, and give him the money." "Just like him, mother. I hope you were firm?" "Yes, Grit. I told him I would not consent. It is all we have. I cannot part with our home and the roof that shelters us." "Of course not, mother. You would be very foolish if you did. Did he mention any one that wanted to buy it?" "Yes, he said that Mr. Green would be willing to advance money upon it." "Mr. Green--the landlord of the hotel? I don't doubt it. He knows that Brandon would pay back the whole for drink in a short time." "I am afraid that would be the case." "Mother," said Grit, with energy, "promise me that you will never consent to this wicked plan." "No, Grit, I won't. I consider that the house is as much yours as mine, and I am not willing to leave you without a home." "I don't so much mind that, for I could shift for myself somehow, but I want you to keep it in your own hands, and I am not willing that Mr. Brandon should sacrifice it for drink." "I agree with you, Grit. Whatever it may cost me, I won't consent." "The sooner he becomes convinced that he has nothing to hope from either of us, the sooner he will leave us," said Grit. "If I thought he would go away and never come back, I would be willing to let him have the sixty dollars, but it would only make him stay, in the hope of getting more." By this time Grit had finished his breakfast. "I must get to work, mother," he said. "I'll be home to dinner at the usual time, if I can." "If not, I will save something for you, Grit." The young boatman made his way to the river. Here an unpleasant surprise awaited him. His boat was not where he had left it. He looked in all directions, but it had disappeared. "What can have become of it?" thought Grit, in perplexity. CHAPTER XIII. GRIT'S BOAT IS SOLD. Brandon was not usually an early riser, and would not on this occasion have got up so soon if a bright idea had not occurred to him likely to bring money to his purse. It was certainly vexatious that Grit so obstinately refused to pay into his hands the money he had managed in some way unknown to his stepfather to accumulate. Perhaps some way of forcing the boy to do so might suggest itself, but meanwhile he was penniless; that is, with the exception of the dime he had abstracted during the night. Possibly his wife might have some money. He proceeded to sound her on the subject. "Mrs. B.," said he, "I shall have to trouble you for a little money." "I gave you a dollar yesterday," said Mrs. Brandon. "What's a dollar? I have none of it left now." "Did you spend it at the tavern?" asked his wife gravely. "I am not willing to be catechized upon that point," returned Brandon, in a tone of lofty dignity. "It is quite impossible to supply you with money for such a purpose," continued Mrs. Brandon. "What money Grit earns is wanted for necessary expenses." "I am not so easily deceived," said her husband, nodding sagaciously. "It is quite true." "I won't argue the point, Mrs. B. Have you any change now? That is the question." "No, I have not." "Be it so. I have only to remark that you and your son will have occasion to regret the unfriendly and suspicious manner in which you see fit to treat me." So saying, Mr. Brandon sat down to his breakfast, which he ate with an appetite such as is usually earned by honest toil. When he rose from the table, he left the cottage without a word. "How it all this to end?" thought Mrs. Brandon, following his retreating form with an anxious glance. "He has not been here twenty-four hours yet, and he has spent a dollar of Grit's hard earnings, and is dissatisfied because we will not give him more. Besides, he has already broached the subject of mortgaging the house, and all to gratify his insatiable thirst for strong drink." Certainly the prospects were not very bright, and Mrs. Brandon might well be excused for feeling anxious. Though Brandon had ten cents in his pocket, the price of a glass of whisky, he did not go at once to the tavern, as might have been expected. Instead of this, he bent his steps toward the river. He knew about where Grit kept his boat, and went directly to it. "Ha! a very good boat!" he said, after surveying it critically. "It ought to be worth ten dollars, at least, though I suppose I can't get over five for it. Well, five dollars will be a lift to me, and if Grit wants another boat he's got the money to buy one. I can get even with him this way, at least. He'd better have treated me well and saved his boat." The boat was tied fast, but this presented no insurmountable difficulty. Brandon pulled a jack-knife out of his pocket, and after awhile--for it was very dull--succeeded in severing the rope. Then he jumped into the boat and began to row out into the stream. He was a little at a loss at first as to where he would be most likely to find a purchaser. In his five years' absence from the neighborhood he had lost his former acquaintances, and there had been, besides, changes in the population. As he was rowing at random, he chanced to look back to the shore he had left, and noticed that a boy was signaling to him. He recognized him as the boy whom he had heard speaking of Grit's treasure, and, being desirous of hearing more on the subject, he at once began to pull back to the river bank. The boy, as the reader will surmise, was Phil Courtney. "Hello, there!" said Phil; "isn't that Grit Morris' boat?" "No, it's mine." "It is the same Grit usually rows in," said Phil, beginning to suspect Brandon of theft. "That may be, but the boat is mine." "Did he sell it to you?" "No." "Who are you, then?" "I am Mr. Brandon, Grit's stepfather." Phil whistled. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he said, surveying Brandon, not over respectfully, for he knew where he had spent the last five years. "So you've come home?" "Yes, but I might as well have stayed away." "How is that?" asked Phil, regarding the man before him with curiosity. Brandon was not too proud to speak of his domestic grievances, as he regarded them, to a stranger. "My wife and son treat me like a stranger," he said. "Instead of giving me a warm welcome after my long absence, they seem to be sorry to see me." "I don't wonder much," thought Phil, but he did not say so, not being averse to drawing Brandon out on this subject. "And that reminds me, young gentleman; I was walking behind you last evening, and I heard you say something about Grit's having a large sum of money." "Yes; he showed me sixty dollars yesterday." "Are you sure there was as much as that?" inquired Brandon eagerly. "Yes, I am sure, for my cousin counted it in my presence." "It might have belonged to some one else," suggested Brandon. "No; I thought so myself, but Grit said it belonged to him." "Did he say where he got it?" "No; he's mighty close about his affairs. I couldn't help wondering myself, and asked him, but he wouldn't tell me." "If he's got as much money as that, he ought to give it to me to take care of." "Why don't you make him give it to you?" suggested Phil maliciously. "I did ask him, but he refused. A boy of his age ought not to carry about so much money. Did he carry it in a roll of bills, or in a pocketbook?" "He had it in a wallet." "I didn't see the wallet," thought Brandon. "I only found the purse. The boy must have hidden it somewhere. I must look for it." "What are you going to do about it?" asked Phil. "Are you going to let him keep it?" "Not if I can find it. I will take it away from him if I get the chance." "I wish he would," thought Phil. "It would soon go for drink, and then Master Grit wouldn't put on so many airs." "May I ask your name?" asked Brandon. "I am Phil Courtney, the son of Squire Courtney, the president of the bank," answered Phil pompously. "You don't say so!" exclaimed Brandon, in a tone of flattering deference. "I am proud to know you. You come of a fine family." "Yes, my father stands pretty high," remarked Phil complacently. "Really," thought he, "this man has very good manners, even if he has just come from the penitentiary. He treats me with a good deal more respect than Grit does. If I could help him to get the money I would." "Not a man in town stands higher," said Brandon emphatically. "Are you a friend of my stepson?" "Well, hardly," answered Phil, shrugging his shoulders. "You must excuse my saying so, but Grit hasn't very good manners, and, though I patronize him by riding in his boat, I cannot regard him as a fitting associate." "You are entirely right, young gentleman," said Brandon. "Though Grit is my stepson, I am not blind to his faults. He has behaved very badly to me already, and I shall be obliged to require him to treat me with more respect. If he would only copy you, I should be very glad." "You are very polite, Mr. Brandon," said Phil, flattered. "I hope, for your sake, that Grit will improve." "By the way, Mr. Courtney"--Phil swelled with conscious pride at this designation--"do you know any one who would like to buy a boat?" "What boat do you refer to?" asked Phil. "This boat." "But I thought it was Grit's." "I am his stepfather, and have decided to sell it." "What'll you take?" asked Phil, not unwilling to buy a good boat, especially as he knew it would annoy Grit. "It is worth ten dollars, but I will sell it for six dollars cash." "Say five, and I'll take it." "Very well, Mr. Courtney, seeing it's you, I will say five." "It's a bargain." Phil had his money in his pocket, and he lost no time in binding the bargain by paying the money. "I think I'll take a row myself," he said. He jumped into the boat, and Brandon, with five dollars in his pocket, took the nearest road to the tavern. CHAPTER XIV. THE BILL OF SALE. A sudden thought struck Phil, and he called back Brandon. "What's wanted now?" asked the latter impatiently. "I want you to give me a bill of sale of the boat," said Phil. "What's the use of that?" "I don't want Grit to charge me with taking his boat without leave." "Oh, bother! it's all right. I haven't got any paper," said Brandon, who was anxious to reach the tavern, and take his morning dram. "I have," said Phil promptly, as he drew out a small note-book and tore out a leaf, which he handed, with a pencil, to Brandon. "What do you want me to write?" asked the latter. Phil dictated a form, which Brandon wrote down and signed. "Will that do?" he asked. "Yes, that will do. Now I am all right, and the boat is mine in spite of all Grit may say." "I have made a good bargain," said Phil, to himself, complacently. "This boat is worth at least twice what I have paid for it. I will get it painted, and a new name for it, and it will pass for a new boat. Won't Grit be mad when he hears what his stepfather has done?" This was, on the whole, the pleasantest reflection connected with the purchase. It was not creditable to Phil to cherish such malice against a boy, simply because he would not treat him with as much deference as he expected; but human nature is often betrayed into petty meannesses, and Phil was a very human boy, so far, at least, as such traits were concerned. We now come back to Grit, who stood on the river's bank in perplexity, when he discovered that his boat had been abstracted. "Who can have taken it?" he thought. Here he felt quite at a loss. It did not occur to him that his stepfather had had anything to do with his boat, for he could not understand of what advantage it would be to him. He did not comprehend fully, however, how serious the loss was likely to prove, since it took away his means of living. He stooped over and examined the rope. Clearly, it had been cut, and this showed that the boat had been taken by some unauthorized person. "I can't understand who would serve me such a trick," thought Grit. "I don't know that I have any enemies." But at this point he could not help thinking of Phil Courtney, who, if not an enemy, was certainly not a friend. "Is it possible that Phil would play me such a trick?" he asked himself. "No; he would think too much of himself. He would not condescend to do such a thing." Grit walked up and down along the river bank, looking here and there to see if anywhere he could descry his boat. At length he saw a boat, but the boat was not his. It belonged to Jesse Burns, the son of the postmaster, and was of about the same size and build as his own. "Jesse!" he called out, putting his hands to his mouth to increase the volume of sound. Jesse heard the call, and rowed toward where Grit was standing. "What is it, Grit?" "My boat has been taken, and I don't know what has become of it." "Is that so?" asked Jesse, in surprise. "Why, I saw Phil Courtney out on the river with it. I passed him only fifteen minutes since. I thought you had let it to him." "Phil Courtney!" exclaimed Grit, angry and surprised. "I didn't think he would take it without leave." "Did he?" "Yes, I found the rope cut." "That doesn't seem like Phil. He's mean enough to do anything, but I didn't think he would do that." "Nor I. I'll give him a good piece of my mind when we meet. Where did you meet him?" "Just above Glen Cove." "Do me a favor, Jesse. Take me into your boat, and row me up there, so that I may meet him, and recover my boat." "All right, Grit. I'm very glad to do you a favor." "Are you sure it is my boat Phil had?" asked Grit, still unwilling to believe that Phil had deliberately taken his boat. "Yes, I know your boat as well as my own. Besides, there was the name, _Water Lily_, on it, as plain as day. There is no doubt about it." "Well," said Grit, closing his lips firmly, "all I can say is, I'll make him pay for the use of the boat, or there'll be trouble." "You won't challenge him, will you, Grit?" asked Jesse, smiling. "That's just what I will do. I should be justified in thrashing him, without notice, but I will give him a chance to defend himself." "If you want a second, call on me," said Jesse. "I don't like Phil any better than you do, and I shan't object to seeing his pride humbled. It's bad for your business, having the boat taken." "Yes, I shall lose the chance of two passengers who wanted to go across to Portville an hour from now." "You may use my boat for that, Grit." "Thank you, Jesse; I should like to, if I don't get back my own. Did you speak to Phil?" "No. I said 'good morning,' but, with his usual politeness, he only gave a slight nod, and did not answer. I wanted to ask him how it happened that he was using your boat so early in the morning, but, you see, I got no chance." "It is queer. I can't guess what he will have to say for himself." "There he is now!" said Jesse suddenly, looking up the river. "Where?" "Don't you see? He is rowing this way. His back is turned, and he hasn't seen us yet." Yes, it was Phil. He had enjoyed a good row, and now was on his return course. He was rowing slowly and lazily, as if fatigued. "You will soon hear what he has to say, Grit," said Jesse. At that moment Phil chanced to turn round, and he saw and recognized the boys that were approaching him. He did not, however, seem confused or embarrassed; neither did he change his course. He merely smiled, and continued to row toward his pursuers. "He sees us, and still he comes on. There's cheek for you!" ejaculated Jesse. Grit said nothing, but his mouth closed firmly, and his eyes sparkled with anger. He waited till Phil was within earshot, and then he demanded sternly: "What are you doing there with my boat, Phil Courtney?" Phil would have resented Grit's tone, but he gloated over the triumphant answer he was able to make, and thought he would tantalize Grit a little. "To what boat do you allude?" he asked, in a nonchalant tone. "To what boat do I allude?" repeated Grit, provoked. "I allude to my boat, in which you are rowing." "You are mistaken," said Phil composedly. "I am rowing in my own boat." "Isn't that the _Water Lily_?" asked Jesse, coming to the help of his friend. "It is at present. I shall change the name for one I like better." "Look here, Phil Courtney!" said Grit indignantly, "this is carrying the joke a little too far. You have taken my boat without leave or license from me, and now you actually claim it as your own. Do you mean to say that isn't the boat I have been rowing on this river for the last year?" "I never said it wasn't." "Isn't it the boat in which I carried you across the river yesterday?" "Of course." "Then what business had you to cut the rope and carry it off?" "I didn't." "Then how did you come by it?" "I bought it!" "Bought it!" exclaimed Grit and Jesse simultaneously. "Yes, I bought it, and it is mine," continued Phil, with a smile of triumph. "It's just as much mine to-day as it was yours yesterday." "I never sold it to you," said Grit, perplexed. "No, but your stepfather, Mr. Brandon, did. If the rope was cut, he cut it." "Can you prove this, Phil Courtney?" asked Grit. "If you will row up alongside, I will satisfy your curiosity." Jesse pulled his boat alongside, and Phil drew from his vest pocket a paper and handed it to Grit. "Read that," he said. Grit read as follows: "In consideration of five dollars, to me paid, I make over and sell the boat called the _Water Lily_ to Philip Courtney. NATHAN BRANDON." "There!" said Philip triumphantly, "what have you to say now?" CHAPTER XV. GRIT ENGAGES ANOTHER BOAT. When Phil displayed the bill of sale, made out in due form by Brandon, Grit was for the moment taken aback. "Whose boat is it now?" continued Phil triumphantly. "It is mine," answered Grit quietly; "for Mr. Brandon had no right to sell it." "I have nothing to do with that," said Phil. "He is your stepfather--you ought to feel proud of having a jail-bird in the family--and he told me the boat was his." "I shall not contest your claim at present," said Grit. "As long as it passes out of my hands, you may as well have it as any one." "I'll sell it back for ten dollars," said Phil, who had a keen scent for a bargain. "Thank you, I don't care to buy back my own property. Besides, Mr. Brandon would be ready to sell it again to-morrow. As to what you say of him, I shan't undertake to defend him. I am not particularly proud of the relationship." "What are you going to do for a boat to ferry your passengers?" asked Phil. "I don't know." "I'll let you this for fifty cents a day." "That would be about half of my receipts, and you would get your money back in ten days. I don't care about making such a bargain as that." "You'll have to give up your business, then," said Phil. "No, he won't," said Jesse Burns. "I will give him the use of mine, and won't charge him a cent." "Thank you, Jesse. You are a true friend," said Grit warmly. "You are doing me a great favor." "And I am glad to do it. Suppose we pull to land? There are three persons at the landing who look as if they wanted to be ferried across." Grit seized the oars and impelled the boat to land. As Jesse had said, there were three persons waiting, a gentleman and two ladies, who at once engaged the services of the young boatman. For this service he received thirty cents, and, finding two persons at the other end who wished to come to Chester, the first hour in his new boat brought him fifty cents. Grit's spirits rose. His misfortune was not irremediable, after all. He had feared that his means of living were taken away, and though he had money enough to buy a new boat, he did not dare to do so, lest Brandon should also sell that. "I'll give him a piece of my mind," he thought. "It's contemptible to come home and live on us, and then to take away my means of living." Meanwhile, Brandon had gone to the tavern, which he entered with a swagger, and immediately called for a glass of whisky. The barkeeper hesitated. "My orders are not to sell on credit," he said. "Who wants you to sell on credit?" asked Brandon haughtily. "You had no money last night." "I've got some now. What do you say to that?" and he displayed the five-dollar bill he had received from Phil Courtney. "That alters the case," said the barkeeper complaisantly. "Your money is as good as anybody's." "I should say so. Give me another." When Brandon left the barroom, he had spent a dollar, having drunk himself and treated others. "Wonder if Grit has found out about his boat?" he said to himself, with a waggish smile, as he walked homeward with unsteady steps. "Serves the boy right for treating me so disrespectfully." It was not much out of his way to go down to the margin of the river, and he did so. It happened that, as he reached it, Grit had just arrived from Portville with a second load of passengers. Fortune, as if to compensate him for his loss of a boat, had brought him an unusual number of passengers, so that he had already earned a dollar. When Brandon saw Grit engaged in his usual avocation, he opened wide his eyes in surprise. "Has the boy got his boat back again?" he asked himself. He was not familiar with the appearance of the boat, and the name had slipped from his recollection. Then, also, Jesse's boat looked very much like Grit's. When the passengers had walked away Brandon took measures to gratify his curiosity. "Where did you get that boat, Grit?" he asked. "Ah, it's you, is it?" said Grit, seeing his stepfather for the first time. "What business had you to sell my boat, Mr. Brandon?" "Ain't I your stepfather, I'd like to know?" retorted Brandon. "I am sorry to say you are," answered Grit; "but that doesn't give you any authority to steal and sell my boat." "Don't you dare to charge me with stealin', you--you young puppy!" exclaimed Brandon, indignantly. "If you had behaved as you ought to me, I wouldn't have meddled with your boat." "I understand you, Mr. Brandon. Because I wouldn't give you the money that I need to support my mother, you meanly and maliciously plot to take away my means of living." "You wouldn't give me your money to take care of for you." "You take care of my money for me!" returned Grit disdainfully. "I know very well how you would take care of it. You've already spent a part of the five dollars you received for stolen property at the tavern, and the result is that you can't walk straight." "You lie! I can walk as straight as you!" said Brandon, and proceeded to prove it by falling against a tree, and recovering his equilibrium with difficulty. "I see you can," said Grit sarcastically. "Of course I can. Where did you get that boat? Is it the same----" "The same you stole from me? No, it isn't." "Have you bought it?" inquired Brandon, with a cunning look. "No, I haven't, and I don't intend to buy another boat for you to sell. I have borrowed it of my friend, Jesse Burns." Mr. Brandon looked disappointed. He had thought the new boat would prove a second bonanza, and he was already considering whether he could find another purchaser for it. "Have you made much money this mornin', Grit?" next inquired Brandon, changing the conversation. "I decline to tell you," answered Grit shortly. "Grit, you don't seem to reflect that I am your stepfather, and set in authority over you." "I am not very likely to forget that I have a stepfather I am ashamed of," said Grit. "This is unkind, Grit," said Brandon, in a voice tremulous with maudlin sentiment. "Because I've been unfortunate, and have been shut out from all enjoyment for five years, you mock and insult me when I get home and pine for domestic happiness." "If you would behave decently, you wouldn't be reminded of the past," said Grit. "But how is it? You haven't been home but twenty-four hours, and have already borrowed all the money mother had, and have sold my boat, to gratify your taste for rum. There may be more contemptible men in the world, but I never met with one." "Grit, if you talk to me in that way," said Brandon, with attempted dignity, "I shall be under the necessity of flogging you." "You'd better not try it, Mr. Brandon. I wouldn't stand still while you were doing it. I promise you that." Just then two gentlemen came down to Phil's pier, and one asked: "Can you take us across to Portville?" "Yes, sir," answered Grit promptly. The two gentlemen got in, and Grit was about to push off, when Brandon said: "Stop, Grit; I'll go, too." "You'll have to wait, Mr. Brandon," said Grit coolly, and a determined push sent the boat out into the stream, and frustrated the design of his stepfather. "You don't want any more passengers, I see," said one of the gentlemen, smiling. "Not of that kind," answered Grit. "You are right. The man had evidently been drinking, and his presence would have been disagreeable to us." When the boat reached the opposite shore, the gentleman who had engaged him handed Grit half a dollar. Grit was about to offer change, but the passenger said: "No, keep the change, my lad. You'll find a use for it, I make no doubt." "After all," thought Grit, who did not forget to thank his liberal patron, "this isn't going to be so bad a day for me." Five minutes later a man with a heavy black beard and rather shabbily attired presented himself as a passenger. "I say, boy," said he, "do you know a man named Brandon that has recently gone to Chester?" "Yes," answered Grit. "All right. When we get over on the other side, you can just point out to me where he lives." CHAPTER XVI. MR. BRANDON'S FRIEND. It was clear that Grit's new passenger was a stranger in the neighborhood. Had he been a resident of Chester or Portville, the young boatman would have known him. It must be confessed, however, that the appearance of the newcomer was not such as to render any one anxious to make his acquaintance. He was a black-haired, low-browed man, with a cunning, crafty look, and, to sum up, with the general appearance of a tramp. He seated himself comfortably, and scanned the young boatman critically. "Where do you live?" he asked abruptly. "In Chester," answered Grit briefly. "That's where my friend Brandon lives, isn't it?" "Yes." "Do you know him?" "Yes." Grit felt reluctant to admit that any tie existed between himself and the returned convict. "Brandon's wife is living, isn't she?" "Yes." "There's a kid, isn't there?" "Mrs. Brandon has a son, if that's what you mean," said Grit. "Of course, that's what I mean. Mrs. Brandon got any property?" Grit was getting provoked. He did not fancy discussing his mother's affairs with a man of this stamp. "You seem to feel considerable interest in the family," he could not help saying. "S'pose I do! That's my business, isn't it?" "I suppose so," answered Grit. "Well, why don't you answer my question?" demanded the passenger impatiently. "I haven't agreed to answer your questions; I have engaged to row you across the river, and I am doing it." "Look here, boy!" said the passenger, bending his brows, "I don't want you to talk back to me--do you hear?" "Yes, I hear; but if you ask me questions I shall answer as I please." "You will, hey? I've a great mind to throw you into the river." "That wouldn't do you any good. You wouldn't get over any quicker, and, besides, you would find yourself under arrest before night." "And you would drown." "Not if I could help it. I can swim across the river easily." "You're a cool hand. Then you are not willing to answer my questions?" "I will, if you will answer mine." "Go ahead. I'll see about it." "Where did you meet Mr. Brandon?" "Where? Well, let that pass." It so happened that the two had first met as fellow prisoners--a confession the passenger did not care to make. Grit inferred this from the reluctance displayed in giving the answer. "What is your name?" "Thomas Travers," answered the passenger, rather slowly. "What is yours?" "Harry Morris." This answer revealed nothing, since Travers did not know the name of Brandon's wife before marriage. "Do you make much, ferrying passengers across the river?" "I do pretty well." "What is your fare?" "Ten cents." "Pretty good. I'd do it for that myself." "There's a chance to run opposition to me," said Grit, smiling. "I've got more important business on hand. So you know Brandon, do you?" "Yes, I know him." "Do you know his wife?" "Yes." "Has she property?" "She owns the small cottage she lives in." "Good!" said Travers, nodding. "That's luck for Brandon." "How is it?" asked Grit, desirous of drawing out Travers, as he probably knew Mr. Brandon's intentions, and it was important that these should be understood. "It's a good thing to have property in the family. My friend Brandon is short of funds, and he can sell the house, or raise money on it." "Without his wife's consent?" "Oh, she'll have to give in," said Travers nonchalantly. "We'll see about that," said Grit to himself, but he did not utter his thoughts aloud. By this time they had reached the opposite shore of the river, and Travers stepped out of the boat. He felt in his vest pocket, as a matter of form, but did not succeed in finding anything there. "I've got no change, boy," he said. "I'll get some from Brandon, and pay you to-morrow." "Mr. Brandon's credit isn't good with me," said Grit. "Ha, does he owe you money?" "I refused to take him across the river this morning," answered Grit. "Look here, young fellow, that isn't the way to carry on business. When you insult my friend Brandon, you insult me. I've a great mind never to ride across on your boat again." "I don't mind losing your patronage," repeated Grit. "It doesn't pay." "We'll discuss that another time. Where does my friend Brandon live?" "You can inquire," returned Grit, by no means anxious to point out the way to his mother's house to this objectionable stranger. "You're the most impudent boy I've met lately," said Travers angrily. "I'll settle you yet." "Better settle with me first, Mr. Travers," said Grit coolly, and he pushed his boat back into the stream. "I wonder who he is," thought Travers, as he walked away from the boat landing. "I must ask Brandon. I wish I could meet him. I'm precious short of funds, and I depend on him to take care of me for a few days." Thomas Travers passed by the little cottage on the bluff, quite unaware that it was the house he was in search of. He kept on his way toward the village, not meeting any one of whom he could ask the proper direction. At length, greatly to his relief, he espied in the distance the familiar figure of Brandon, walking, or, more properly, reeling, toward him. "That's he--that's my friend Brandon!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Now I'm all right. Say, old fellow, how are you?" "Is it you, Travers?" said Brandon, trying to steady himself. "Yes, it's I--Tom Travers." "When did you get out?" "Sh! Don't speak too loud!" said Travers, looking about him cautiously. "I got out two days after you." "What are you doing here?" "Just come. Come to see you, old boy. I can stay with you, can't I?" Brandon looked dubious. "I don't know what Mrs. B. will say," he answered slowly. "You're boss in your own house, ain't you?" "Well, that's where it is! It isn't my own house. It belongs to Mrs. B." "Same thing, I take it." "No, it isn't. The old lady's bound to keep it in her own hands." "Can't you sell or mortgage it?" "She won't let me." "Bah! Can't you control a woman?" returned Travers disdainfully. "I might, but for the cub." "The boy?" "Yes. He's the most obstinate, perverse, independent young kid you ever saw." "You don't say so!" "Fact! It's pretty hard on me." "Then he'll make a pretty good match for the boy I met this morning." "Where?" "The boy that ferried me across the river. He's as sassy a young kid as I ever saw." "Why, that's him--that's Grit." "Grit! He told me his name was Harry Morris." "So it is, and his mother was Mrs. Morris before I married her." "You don't mean to say that boy is your stepson?" "Yes, he is." "Whew!" whistled Travers. "Well, he doesn't seem to admire you very much," continued the visitor. "No, doesn't treat me with any respect. If it wasn't for him, I could manage his mother. He sets her against me, and gets her to stand out against anything I propose. It's hard, Travers," continued Brandon, showing an inclination to indulge in maudlin tears. "Then why do you submit to it, Brandon? Ain't you a match for a boy like that? Why, you ain't half the man I thought you was." "Ain't I? I was too much for Grit this morning, anyway," said Brandon, with a cunning smile. "What did you do?" "I sold his boat before he was up, and he had to borrow another." "Good!" exclaimed Travers, delighted. "You're a trump. Have you got any of the money left?" "A little." "Then steer for the tavern, old fellow. I'm awfully thirsty." The next hour was spent in the barroom, and then the worthy and well-matched pair bent their steps toward the little cottage, Travers supporting his friend Brandon as well as he could. CHAPTER XVII. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. Mrs. Brandon was laying the cloth for dinner when she heard a scuffling sound, as of footsteps, in the entry. "Who is with Mr. Brandon?" she thought. "It can't be Grit. They wouldn't be likely to come home together." Her uncertainty was soon at an end, for the door was opened, and her husband reeled in, sinking into the nearest chair, of necessity, for his limbs refused to support him. Just behind him was Mr. Thomas Travers, who was also under the influence of his recent potations, but not to the same extent as his companion. "How do, Mrs. B.?" said her liege lord. "Mrs. B., I have the pleasure of introducin' my frien' Travers. Come in, Travers." Mrs. Brandon surveyed the two with a look of disgust, and did not speak. "I hope I see you well, ma'am," said Travers, rather awkwardly, endeavoring, with some difficulty, to maintain an erect attitude. "Sorry to intrude, but my old friend Brandon insisted." "You can come in if you like," said Mrs. Brandon coldly. "I say, Mrs. B., is dinner almost ready? My frien', Mr. Travers, is hungry, an' so'm I." "Dinner is nearly ready. I suppose, Mr. Brandon, you have just come from the tavern." "Yes, Mrs. B., I've come from the tavern," hiccoughed Brandon. "Have you anything to say against it?" "I would say something if it would do any good," said his wife despondently. "If you think--hic--that I've been drinking Mrs. B., you're mistaken; ain't she, Travers?" "You didn't drink enough to hurt you, Brandon," said his companion, coming to his assistance. Mrs. Brandon looked at Travers, but did not deign to answer him. It was clear that his assurance possessed no value in her eyes. She continued her preparations, and laid the dinner on the table. Then she went to the door, and, shading her eyes, looked out, hoping to see Grit on his way home. But she looked in vain. Just as he was about fastening his boat, or, rather, the boat he had borrowed, two passengers came up and wished to be conveyed across the river. "My dinner can wait," thought Grit. "I must not disappoint passengers." So his coming home was delayed, and Brandon and his friend had the field to themselves. When dinner was ready, Brandon staggered to the table and seated himself. "Sit down, Travers," he said. "You're in my house, and you must make yourself at home." He said this a little defiantly, for he saw by Mrs. Brandon's expression that she was not pleased with his friend's presence. "I'm glad to hear it," said Travers, with a knowing smile. "I was told that the house belonged to your wife." "It's the same thing, isn't it, Mrs. B.?" returned Brandon. "Not quite," answered his wife bitterly. "If it were, we should not have a roof over our heads." "There you go again!" said Brandon fiercely, pounding the table with the handle of his knife. "Don't let me hear no more such talk. I'm master here, d'ye hear that?" "That's the talk, Brandon!" said Travers approvingly. "I like to hear a man show proper independence. Of course you're master here." Mrs. Brandon was of a gentle nature, but she was roused to resentment by this rudeness. Turning to Travers, she said: "I don't know who you are, sir, but your remarks are offensive and displeasing." "I'm the friend of my friend Brandon," said Travers insolently, "and as long as he don't complain of my remarks, I shall remark what I please. What d'ye say, Brandon?" "Quite right, Travers, old boy! You're in my house, and I expect you to be treated accordingly. Mrs. B., you will be kind enough to remember that this gen'leman is a frien' of mine," and Brandon closed the sentence with a drunken hiccough. "I think it necessary to say that this house belongs to me," said Mrs. Brandon, "and that no one is welcome here who does not treat me with respect." "Spunky, eh?" said Travers, laughing rudely. "Yes, she's spunky," said Brandon, "but we'll cure her of that, eh, Travers?--the same way as I cured that boy of hers." "That was good!" laughed Travers. "He's an impudent young rascal." Mrs. Brandon was alarmed. What did they mean by these references? What had been done to Grit, and how had he been served? Was it possible that Brandon had dared to use violence to the boy? The very thought hardened her, and gave her courage. "Mr. Brandon," she said, with flashing eyes, "what do you mean? What have you done to Grit? Have you dared to illtreat him? If you have, it will be a bad day's work for you." "Ha! She threatens you, Brandon. Now, brace up, man, and show your spunk," said Travers, enjoying the scene. "I'm not accountable to you, Mrs. B.," stammered Brandon, in what he essayed to make a dignified tone. "Grit is my stepson, and I'm his natural guardian." "Mr. Brandon, what have you done to Grit?" persisted his wife, with flashing eyes. "Have you dared to lay a finger upon him?" "I'll lay two fingers, three fingers, on him, if I like," said Brandon doggedly. "He's a sassy puppy, Mrs. B." Mrs. Brandon became more and more anxious. Generally, Grit was home by this time, and his failure to appear led the anxious mother to conclude that he had been injured by her husband. "Where is Grit?" she asked, with startling emphasis. "He's all right," stammered Brandon. "He's all right, but he isn't happy," said Travers, laughing. "That was a good move of yours, selling his boat." "Did you sell Grit's boat, Mr. Brandon?" demanded his wife quickly. "Yes, I did, Mrs. B. Have you got anything to say against it?" "I say that it was a mean, contemptible, dishonest act!" said Mrs. Brandon warmly. "You have taken away the poor boy's means of living, in order to gratify your love of drink. The food which you are eating was bought with his earnings. How do you expect to live, now that you have taken away his boat?" "He'll get along; he's got sixty dollars," said Brandon thickly. "Sixty dollars won't last forever. To whom did you sell the boat?" "Phil Courtney." "He was just the boy to buy it. Little he cared for the harm he was doing my poor Grit. How much did he pay you?" "Five dollars." "And how much of the money have you got left?" Brandon drew out two silver half-dollars from his pocket. "That's all I've got left," he said. "And you have actually squandered four dollars on liquor, you and your friend!" said Mrs. Brandon--"nearly the whole sum you received for my poor boy's boat!" "Hush up, Mrs. B.! It's none of your business," said Brandon. "That's the way to talk, Brandon!" said Travers, surveying the scene with boorish delight. "I like to see a man show the proper spirit of a man. I like to see a man master in his own house." "You would not insult me so if Grit were here!" said Mrs. Brandon, with a red spot on either cheek. "Mr. Brandon, I tolerate your presence here, because I was foolish enough to accept you as my husband. As for this man whom you have brought here, he is unwelcome. He has dared to insult me while sitting at my table, and I ask him in your presence to leave the house." "Travers is my frien'; he will stay here, Mrs. B., and don't you forget it!" Brandon pounded the table as he spoke, and nodded his head vigorously. "Sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Brandon," said Travers impudently, "but when my friend Brandon tells me to stay, stay I must. If you don't enjoy my being here, let me suggest to you, in the politest manner, to go and take a walk. Eh, Brandon?" "Yes, go take a walk!" said Brandon, echoing his friend's remark. "I'll have you to know, Mrs. B., that this is my house, an' I am master here. My frien' Travers will stay here as long as he pleases." "That's the talk, Brandon. I knew you weren't under petticoat government. You're too much of a man for that." "Yesh, I'm too much of a man for that," said Brandon sleepily. Travers took from his pocket a clay pipe, and, deliberately filling the bowl with tobacco, began to smoke. As he leaned back in his chair, winking insolently at Mrs. Brandon, the poor woman cried: "Will no one relieve me from this insolent intruder?" The words caught the ears of Grit, who entered at this moment. He looked from one to the other of the two men who sat at his mother's table, and his eyes flashed, and his boyish form dilated with passion. CHAPTER XVIII. A STORMY TIME. "What does this mean?" demanded Grit, in a stern voice. "What have these men been doing?" "Oh, Grit, I am glad you are here!" said his mother. "Mr. Brandon has brought this man here against my will, and he has treated me rudely." Travers looked round and saw the boy. "Hello, my young friend!" he said. "You didn't tell me that my friend Brandon was your stepfather." "Because I was ashamed of it," answered Grit promptly. "D'ye hear that, Brandon?" said Travers. "The boy says he is ashamed of you." "I'll settle with him when I feel better," said Brandon, who realized that he was not in a condition even to deal with a boy. "He's a bad-mannered cub, an' deserves a floggin'." "You won't give it to me!" said Grit contemptuously. "What is the name of this man you have brought into the house?" "He's my frien' Travers," answered Brandon. "My frien' Travers is a gen'l'man." "A gentleman isn't insolent to ladies," retorted Grit. "Mr. Travers, if that is your name, my mother wishes you to leave the house." "Couldn't do it," said Travers, leering. "My frien' Brandon wants me to stay--don't you, Brandon?" "Certainly, Travers. This is my house, an' I'm master of the house. Don't you mind what Mrs. B. or this cub says. Just stay where you are, and stand by me." "I'll do it with pleasure," said Travers. "My friend Brandon is the master of this house, and what he says I will do." "Mr. Travers," said Grit firmly, "you shall not stay here. This house belongs to my mother, and she wishes you to go. I suppose you can understand that?" "My dear boy, you may as well shut up. I shan't go." "You won't!" said Grit menacingly. "Oh, Grit, don't get into any difficulty," said his mother, becoming alarmed. Travers puffed away at his pipe, surveying Grit with an insulting smile. "Listen to your mother, boy!" he said. "She talks sense." "Mother," said Grit quietly, "will you be kind enough to go up-stairs for five minutes? I will deal with these men." "I will go if you think it best, Grit; but do be cautious. I am sure Mr. Travers will see the impropriety of his remaining here against my wishes." "I may see it in a few days," said Travers insolently. "Don't trouble yourself, ma'am. The law is on my side, and I am the guest of my friend Brandon. Isn't that so, Brandon?" "To be sure, Travers," said Brandon, in a drowsy tone. "Mr. Brandon's friends are not welcome here," said Grit, "nor is he himself welcome." "That's an unkind thing for your own boy to say," said Brandon, in a tone which he tried to make pathetic. "Because I've been unfortunate, my own family turn against me." "If you had behaved decently, Mr. Brandon, we would have tolerated your presence," said Grit; "but during the short time you have been here, you have annoyed and robbed my mother and myself, and spent the money you stole at the tavern. We have had enough of you!" "Do you hear that, Travers?" asked Brandon, by a ludicrous transition shedding maudlin tears. "Do you hear that ungrateful boy?" Meanwhile, Mrs. Brandon, in accordance with Grit's request, had left the room. Grit felt that the time had come for decisive measures. He was not a quarrelsome boy, nor was he given to fighting, but he had plenty of spirit, and he was deeply moved and provoked by the insolence of Travers. Some consideration he perhaps owed to his mother's husband; but to his disreputable companion, none whatever. "Mr. Travers," he said, with cool determination, turning toward the intruder, "did you hear me say that my mother desired you to leave the house?" "I don't care that for your mother!" said Travers, snapping his fingers. "My friend Brandon----" He did not complete the sentence. Grit could not restrain himself when he heard this insolent defiance of his mother, and, without a moment's hesitation, he approached Travers, with one sweep of his arm dashed the pipe he was smoking into a hundred pieces, and, seizing the astonished visitor by the shoulders, pushed him forcibly to the door and thrust him out. Travers was so astonished that he was quite unable to resist, nor indeed was he a match for the strong and muscular boy in his present condition. "Well, that beats all I ever heard of!" he muttered, as he stumbled into a sitting position on the door-step. Brandon stared at Grit and his summary proceeding in a dazed manner. "Wha--what's all this, Grit?" he asked, trying to rise from his chair. "How dare you treat my friend Travers so rudely?" Grit's blood was up. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with resentment. "Mr. Brandon," he said, "we have borne with you, my mother and I, but this has got to stop. When you bring one of your disreputable friends here to insult my mother, you've got me to deal with. Don't you dare bring that man here again!" This was, I admit, rather a singular tone for a boy of Grit's age to assume, but it must be considered what provocation he had. Circumstances had made him feel older than he really was. For nearly five years he had been his mother's adviser, protector, and dependence, and he felt indignant through and through at the mean and dastardly course of his stepfather. "Don't be sassy, Grit," said Brandon, slipping back into his chair. "I'm the master of this house." "That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Brandon," said Grit. "Perhaps you are," retorted Brandon, with mild sarcasm. "This house has no master. My mother is the mistress and owner," said Grit. "I'm goin' to flog you, Grit, when I feel better." "I'm willing to wait," said Grit calmly. Here there was an interruption. The ejected guest rose from his sitting posture on the steps, and essayed to lift the latch and gain fresh admittance. He failed, for Grit, foreseeing the attempt, had bolted the door. Finding he could not open the door, Travers rattled the latch and called out: "Open the door, Brandon, and let me in!" "Open the door, Grit," said his stepfather, not finding it convenient to rise. "I refuse to do so, Mr. Brandon," said Grit, in a firm tone. "Why don't you let me in?" was heard from the outside, as Travers rattled the latch once more. "I'll have to open it myself," said Brandon, half rising and trying to steady himself. The attempt was vain, for he had already drunk more than was good for him when he met Travers, and had drunk several glasses on top of that. Instead of going to the door, he sank helpless and miserable on the floor. "That disposes of him," said Grit, eying the prostrate form with a glance of disgust and contempt. "I shall be able to manage the other one now with less trouble." "Let me in, Brandon!" repeated Travers, beginning to pound on the door. Grit went to a window on a line with the door, and, raising it, looked out at the besieging force. "Mr. Travers," he said, "you may as well go away; you won't get back into the house." "My friend Brandon will let me in. You're only a boy. My friend Brandon is the master of the house. He will let me in." "Your friend Brandon is lying on the floor, drunk, and doesn't hear you," said Grit. "Then I'll let myself in!" said Travers, with an oath. He picked up a rock, and began to pound the door, to the imminent danger of breaking the panels. "There's more than one way to get in. When I get in, I'll mash you!" The time had come for decisive action. Drunk as he was, Travers would sooner or later break down the door, and then there would be trouble. Grit seized an old pistol which lay on the mantel-piece. It had long been disused, and was so rusty that it was very doubtful whether any use could have been made of it. Still it presented a formidable appearance, as the young boatman pointed it at Travers. "Stop pounding that door, or I fire!" Grit exclaimed, in a commanding tone. Travers turned quickly at the word, and as he saw the rusty weapon pointed at him, his small stock of courage left him, and he turned pale, for he was a coward at heart. "For the Lord's sake, don't fire!" he cried hastily. CHAPTER XIX. TRAVERS PICKS UP A FRIEND. Travers looked the picture of fright as he beheld the rusty pistol which Grit pointed at him. "Don't fire, for the Lord's sake!" he repeated, in alarm. "Will you go away, then, and give up troubling us?" demanded the young boatman sternly. "Yes, yes, I'll go," said Travers hurriedly. "Lower that pistol. It might go off." Grit lowered the weapon, as desired, seeing that Travers was likely to keep his word. "Tell Brandon I want to see him. I will be at the tavern this afternoon at four o'clock." "I'll tell him," said Grit, who preferred that his stepfather should be anywhere rather than at home. Having got rid of Travers, Grit turned to survey his stepfather, who was lying on the floor, breathing heavily. His eyes were closed, and he seemed in a drunken stupor. "How long have we got to submit to this?" thought Grit. "I must go up and consult with mother about what is to be done." He went up-stairs, and found his mother seated in her chamber, nervously awaiting the issue of the interview between Grit and the worthy pair below. "Are they gone, Grit?" she asked quickly. "Travers is gone, mother. I turned him out of the house." "Did you have any trouble with him?" "I should have had, but he was too weak to resist me, on account of having drunk too much." "I thought I heard him pounding on the door." "So he did, but I frightened him away with the old pistol," and Grit laughed at the remembrance. "He thought it was loaded." "He may come back again," said Mrs. Brandon apprehensively. "Yes, he may. Brandon is likely to draw such company. I wish we could get rid of him, too." "What a fatal mistake I made in marrying that man!" said Mrs. Brandon mournfully. "That is true, mother but it can't be helped now. The question is, what shall we do?" "Where is he?" "Lying on the floor, drunk," said Grit, in a tone of disgust. "We may as well leave him there for the present." "He has hardly been home twenty-four hours, yet how he has changed our quiet life. If he would only reform!" "Not much chance of that, mother." "What shall we do, Grit?" asked Mrs. Brandon, who was wont to come to Grit, young as he was, for advice. "I have thought of two ways. I might buy him a ticket for Boston, if I thought he would use it. It would be of no use to give him the money, or he would spend it at the tavern instead." "If he would only leave us to ourselves, it would a blessing." "If he won't hear of that, there is another way." "What is it?" "I could engage board for you and myself at the house of one of our neighbors for a week." "What good would that do, Grit?" "You would prepare no meals at home, and Mr. Brandon would be starved out. While he can live upon us, and raise money to buy liquor at the tavern, there is little chance of getting rid of him." "I don't know, Grit. It seems a harsh thing to do." "But consider the circumstances, mother. We can't allow him to continue annoying us as he has done." "Do as you think best, Grit." "Then I will go over to Mrs. Sprague's and ask if she will take us for a few days. That will probably be sufficient." Going down-stairs, Grit saw his stepfather still lying on the floor. Grit's step aroused him, and he lifted his head. "'S'that you Grit?" he asked, in thick accents. "Yes, sir." "Where's my frien' Travers?" "He's gone." "Where's he gone?" "To the tavern. He said he would meet you there at four o'clock." "What time is it?" asked Brandon, trying to get up. "Two o'clock." "I'll be there. You tell him so, Grit." "I will if I see him." Grit went on his way to Mrs. Sprague's, and had no difficulty in making the arrangement he desired for his mother and himself, when she learned that Mr. Brandon was not to come, too. "I feel for your mother, Grit," she said. "If I can help her in this trial, I certainly will." "Thank you, Mrs. Sprague. I will return and tell her. Perhaps she may come over by the middle of the afternoon. I don't like to leave her alone in the house with Mr. Brandon." "She will be welcome whenever she comes, Grit." "You had better go over at once, mother," said Grit, on his return. "A drunken man is not fit company for you." Mrs. Brandon was easily persuaded to take the step recommended, and her husband was left in the house alone. Meanwhile, Travers went on his way to the tavern. It was rather a serious thing for him to be turned out of his friend's house, for he had but a scanty supply of money, and his appearance was not likely to give him credit. "Confound that boy!" he muttered. "He's just reckless enough to shoot me, if I don't give up to him. I pity Brandon, having such a son as that." It would have been more in order to pity Grit for having such a stepfather, but Travers looked upon the matter from his own point of view, which, it is needless to say, was influenced by his own interests. "Will they take me at the tavern?" he thought to himself. "If they won't, I shall have to sleep out, and that would be hard for a gentleman like me." When we are in a tight place, help often comes from unexpected quarters, and this to those who hardly deserve such a favor. So it happened in the case of Travers. As he was walking slowly along, his face wrinkled with perplexity, he attracted the attention of a tall man, dressed in black, who might readily have passed for a clergyman, so far as his externals went. He crossed the street, and accosted Travers. "My friend," he said, "you appear to be in trouble." "So I am," answered Travers readily. "Of what nature?" "I've just been turned out of the house of the only friend I have in the village, and I don't know where to go." "Go to the tavern." "So I would if I had money enough to pay my score. You haven't got five dollars to spare, have you?" Travers had no expectation of being answered in the affirmative, and he was surprised, as well as gratified, when the stranger drew out his wallet, and, taking therefrom a five-dollar bill, put it into his hand. "There," said he. "Well!" exclaimed the astonished Travers, "you're a gentleman if ever there was one. May I know the name of such an--an ornament to his species?" The stranger smiled. "I am glad you appreciate my little favor," he said. "As to my name, you may call me Colonel Johnson." "Proud to know you, colonel," said Travers, clasping the hand of his new acquaintance warmly. "What is your name?" asked Johnson. "Thomas Travers." "I am glad to know you, Mr. Travers," said the colonel. "Let me drop you a hint. There's more money where that came from." "You couldn't lend me any more, could you?" asked Travers eagerly. "Well, not exactly lend, Mr. Travers, but perhaps we can enter into a little business arrangement." "All right, colonel," said Travers briskly. "I'm out of business. Fact is, I've been in seclusion lately--confined to the house in fact, and haven't been able to earn anything." "Just so. Suppose we take a walk in yonder field, and I will tell you what I have in view." They got over a fence, and walked slowly along a path that led a quarter of a mile farther on into the woods. Here they sat down under a tree, and Colonel Johnson, producing a couple of cigars and a match, said: "I can always talk better when I am smoking. Have one, Travers." "You're a man after my own heart, colonel," said Travers enthusiastically. "Now, if I only had a nip I should be in clover." "Take one, then," said the colonel, producing a pocket-flask of brandy. Travers was by no means bashful in accepting this invitation. CHAPTER XX. A PROMISING PLAN. The conference between Colonel Johnson and Travers was apparently of great interest to the latter. It is important that the reader should be made acquainted with its nature. "I take it for granted, Mr. Travers," said the colonel, after their potation, "that you are ready to undertake a job if there is money in it." "That's as true as you live," said Travers emphatically. "Am I also right in concluding that you are not squeamish as to how the money is earned? You are not overburdened with conscientious scruples, eh?" "Not much! They're all nonsense," returned Travers. "Good! I see you are the sort of a man I took you for. Now you must, to begin with, promise that you will regard as confidential what I am about to say to you." "Tom Travers can be relied upon, colonel. He's safe every time." "Good again! Then I shall not hesitate to unfold to you my little plan. I believe you have a bank in the village?" "Yes; but, colonel, I am a stranger here. I only know one person here--my friend Brandon." "Is he--the same kind of a man as yourself?" inquired Johnson. "The same identical kind, colonel. What is it Shakespeare, or some other poet, says: "'Two flowers upon a single stalk, Two hearts that beat as one.'" "I compliment you on your knowledge of poetry, Mr. Travers. I didn't think it was in you." Travers looked complimented. "I've had an education, colonel," he said complacently, "though circumstances have been against me for the last four years. As for my friend Brandon, he's one you can rely upon." "I shall probably require his services as well as yours," said Johnson. "Now let me proceed. You agree with me that bank capitalists are grasping monopolists, that they grind down the poor man, and live in luxury at the expense of the poor laborer." "Just my notion, colonel!" "And whatever we can get out of them is what they richly deserve to lose?" "Just so!" "Well and good! I see you agree with me. And now, friend Travers, I will tell you what I have in view, and why it is that I need the services of two gentlemen like you and your friend. The fact is"--here Johnson dropped the mask, being assured of the character of his listener--"there's a good haul to be made within three days--a haul which, if successful, will make all three of us easy in our circumstances for years to come." "Go ahead, colonel. I'm with you, and my friend Brandon, too. I'll answer for him. We both need a lift mightily." "I learn--no matter how"--said Johnson, lowering his voice, "that a messenger from the bank goes to Boston day after to-morrow with a package of thirty thousand dollars in government bonds. He's to carry them to the Merchant's National Bank in Boston. These bonds are not registered, but coupon bonds, and can easily be sold. They are at a premium of fifteen or sixteen per cent., which would bring up the value to nearly or quite thirty-five thousand dollars." Travers listened with eager interest. He began to understand the service that was expected of him, but it did not apparently shock him. "Well?" he said. "My plan," continued Colonel Johnson, "is for you and your friend to follow this bank messenger, and between here and Boston to relieve him of this package. You will meet me at a spot agreed upon in or near the city, and I will take the package." "You will take the package?" repeated Travers blankly. "Yes, but I will reward you liberally for your service. You and Brandon will each receive from me, in case the affair succeeds, the sum of five thousand dollars." "I thought we would share and share alike," said Travers, in a tone of disappointment. "Nonsense, man! Isn't it my plan? Am I to reap no benefit from my own conception? Besides, shall I not have the care and responsibility of disposing of the bonds? This will involve danger." "So will our part involve danger," objected Travers. "That is true, but your hazard is small. There will be two of you to one bank messenger. Besides, I take it for granted that you will be adroit enough to relieve the messenger without his knowing anything about it. When he discovers his loss you will be out of sight. It strikes me you will be rewarded very handsomely for the small labor imposed upon you." Travers made a further effort to secure better terms, but his new acquaintance was firm in refusing them. The result was, that Travers unconditionally accepted for himself and Brandon. "When shall you see your friend Brandon, as you call him?" inquired the colonel. "This very afternoon," answered Travers promptly. "Good! I like your promptness." "That is, if I can," continued Travers, a shade doubtfully, for he remembered the summary manner in which he had been ejected from the house of his congenial companion and friend. "Very well. Then we will postpone further debate till you have done so. I shall stay at the tavern here, and you can readily find me." "I will stay there, too. I was staying with my friend Brandon, but his wife and her son did not treat me well, and I left them. They want to separate us--old friends as we are." "They are jealous of you," suggested Johnson, smiling. "Just so, but I'll euchre them yet." The two walked together to the road, and there they separated, Johnson suggesting that it might be prudent for them not to be seen together too much. Travers assented, and turned back in the direction of the house he had recently left under rather mortifying circumstances. "The boy'll be gone to his boat," he thought, "and I don't care for the old lady. She doesn't like me, but I can stand that. I must see my friend Brandon, if I can." Although Travers decided that Grit had returned to his boat, he approached the house cautiously. He thought it possible that Grit might still be on guard with the formidable pistol which he had pointed at him an hour or more earlier, and he did not like the looks of the weapon. "It might go off!" he thought. "That plaguy boy is awfully reckless, and he wouldn't mind shooting a gentleman, if he felt like it. I'd like to pitch him into the water, pistol and all," he ejaculated fervently, in conclusion. As I have said, Travers approached the little cottage with cautious steps. Drawing near, he listened to see if he could hear any sound of voices that would betray the presence of the boy he wished to avoid. All was still. Nothing was to be heard but the deep breathing of Brandon, who still lay on the floor in a stupor. Grit was back at his boat, and Mrs. Brandon had already left the house and gone to spend the remainder of the afternoon with her neighbor. Brandon was, therefore, the only occupant of the cottage. "I hear my friend Brandon," said Travers to himself. "I can hear nothing of the boy. He must be away." By way of ascertaining definitely, Travers moved round to the window and peered in. He caught sight of the prostrate figure of Brandon, but could see no one else. "It's all right," he said to himself, in a satisfied tone. He tried the door, and found it unlocked. He entered, and stooping over, seized Brandon by the shoulder, and called him loudly by name. "I say, Brandon, wake up!" "Go away, Grit," said Brandon drowsily. "It isn't Grit. It's I--your friend Travers," said that gentleman. "Thought my friend Travers was gone," muttered Brandon, opening his eyes. "So I did go, but I've come back. I want to see you on important business." "'Portant business?" repeated Brandon. "Yes, very important business. Do you want to earn five thousand dollars?" "Five thousand dollars!" said Brandon, roused by this startling inquiry. "'Course I do." "Then rouse yourself, and I'll tell you all about it. Here, let me bring you some water, and you can dip your face in it. It will bring you to yourself sooner than anything else." Brandon acceded to the proposal, and was soon in a clearer state of mind. Travers proceeded to unfold his plan, after learning that Mrs. Brandon was out; but he had a listener he did not know of. Grit had come home for something he had forgotten, and, with his ear to the keyhole, heard the whole plot. He listened attentively. When all was told, he said to himself: "I'll foil them, or my name isn't Grit!" CHAPTER XXI. MR. BRANDON LOSES HIS SUPPER. When Brandon and Travers had discussed the plan, and decided to accept the terms offered by Colonel Johnson, the latter, looking cautiously about, inquired: "Where's the boy?" "Out with the boat, I expect," said Brandon. "He's a little ruffian. I never saw such a desperate boy of his age." "He managed you neatly," said Brandon, with a smile. "Pooh!" returned Travers, who did not like the allusion. "I didn't want to hurt the boy." "He didn't want to harm you," said Brandon, with an exasperating smile. "I could wind him round my finger," said Travers disdainfully. "You don't think I'm afraid of that half-grown cub, I hope." Grit heard this, and smiled to himself at the evident annoyance of Travers. "As to winding me round his finger," thought the young boatman, "I may have something to say about that." Brandon did not continue his raillery, not wishing to provoke the friend who had secured him participation in so profitable a job. "Where's the old lady?" asked Travers, with a glance toward the staircase. "I believe she's gone out, but I'll see." Brandon went to the foot of the stairs, and called: "Mrs. B.!" There was no response. "Yes, she's gone, and the coast is clear. Where are you staying, Travers?" "I s'pose I'll have to stay at the hotel, unless you can provide for me here." "You'd better go to the tavern, for there might be trouble about keepin' you here. Mrs. B. and the boy don't like you." "I thought you were master of the house," said Travers, with mild sarcasm. "So I am," answered Brandon, a little embarrassed, "but I don't want to be in hot water all the time." "You don't want me to stay to supper, I reckon." "Well, I guess not to-night. Fact is, I don't know when we shall have supper. Mrs. B. ought to be here gettin' it ready." "Come out and have a walk, Brandon. I will introduce you to Colonel Johnson, and we can talk this thing over." "All right. That'll take up the time till supper." The two men walked over to the tavern, and Colonel Johnson walked out with them. They had a conference together, but it is not necessary to give the details here. A little after six o'clock Brandon directed his steps homeward. "I'll be a little late to supper," he said to himself, "but Mrs. B. will save some for me. I feel confoundedly hungry. Must be in the air. There's nothing like country air to give a man a good appetite." Brandon opened the door of the cottage, and went in. All was quiet and solitary, as he had left it. "Well. I'll be blowed!" he ejaculated. "What does all this mean? Where's Mrs. B., and where's supper?" He sat down, and looked about him in surprise and bewilderment. "What has become of Mrs. B.?" he thought. "She hasn't gone and left me, just when I've come home after an absence of five years? That boy can't have carried her off, can he?" Brandon did not have long to debate this question in his own mind, for the door opened, and Grit and his mother entered. Brandon was relieved, but he could not forbear expressing his vexation. "Well, Mrs. B.," he said, "this I call pretty goings on. Are you aware that it is nearly seven o'clock, ma'am?" "I supposed it was," answered his wife quietly. "And you've left me to starve here, ma'am! This is a strange time for supper." "We've had supper," answered Grit coolly. "Had supper!" ejaculated Brandon, looking about him. "I don't see any signs of supper." "You won't see any signs of it here," continued Grit. "What do you mean?" "I mean that mother and I have engaged board at Mrs. Sprague's. We have just had supper there." "You have! Well, that's a new start. It doesn't matter much, though. I'll go over and get mine." "We haven't made any arrangements for you," said Grit. "I shall pay for mother's board and mine. You can make any bargain you like for your board." "Well, if that isn't the meanest treatment I ever received!" exclaimed Brandon, in wrath and disgust. "You actually begrudge me the little I eat, and turn me adrift in the cold world!" "That's one way of looking at it, Mr. Brandon," said Grit. "Here's the other: You are a strong man, in good health, and able to work. Most men in your position expect to support a family, but you come to live upon my earnings, and expect me not only to provide you with board, but with money for the purpose of drink. That isn't all! You bring home one of your disreputable companions, and expect us to provide for him, too. Now, I am willing to work for mother, and consider it a privilege to do so, but I can't do any more. If you don't choose to contribute to the support of the family, you must at least take care of yourself. I am not going to do it." "How hard and unfeeling you are, Grit!" said Brandon, in the tone of a martyr. "After all I have suffered in the last five years you treat me like this." "As to the last five years, Mr. Brandon," said Grit, "I should think you would hardly care to refer to them. It was certainly your own fault that you were not as free as I am." "I was a victim of circumstances," whined Brandon. "We won't discuss that," said Grit. "You had a fair trial, and were sentenced to five years' imprisonment. About the unkindness. I should like to know what you think of a man who deliberately takes away the means of earning a living from his stepson, who is filling his place, and supporting his family, in order to gratify his miserable love of drink." "You drove me to it, Grit." "How did I drive you to it?" "You would not give me from your overflowing hoards, when I felt sick and in need of a mild stimulus. You had sixty dollars, and would not spare me one." "So you sold my boat for half price, and squandered nearly the whole proceeds in one forenoon!" exclaimed Grit scornfully. "Mr. Brandon, your reasoning is altogether too thin. We have decided to leave you to support yourself as you can." Here the glowing prospects offered by the plan suggested by Colonel Johnson occurred to Brandon, and his tone changed. "You may find you have made a mistake, Grit, you and Mrs. B.," said Brandon pompously. "You have snubbed and illtreated me because you looked upon me as a poor, destitute, friendless man. It's the way of the world! But you may regret it, and that very soon. What will you say when I tell you that I have a chance to earn five thousand dollars in the next five days, eh?" Mrs. Brandon looked surprised, for Grit had not thought it wise to confide to his mother what he had heard of the conversation between Travers and his stepfather. Grit, on the other hand, was immediately interested, for the compensation offered was one of the things he had not overheard. "Five thousand dollars!" he repeated, appearing to be surprised. "Yes, five thousand dollars!" repeated Brandon complacently. "That's a thousand dollars a day! Perhaps you won't be so anxious to get rid of me when I am worth my thousands." "That's pretty good pay," said Grit quietly. "What have you got to do?" "That would be telling," said Brandon cunningly. "It's a joint speculation of my friend Travers and myself--my friend Travers, whom you treated so badly. It's he that's brought me this fine offer, and you insult and order him out of the house. You were just as bad as Grit, Mrs. B." "You are welcome to all you make, Mr. Brandon," said Grit. "Neither my mother nor myself will ask a penny of the handsome sum you expect to make. You can spend it all on yourself if you like. All we ask is, that you will take care of yourself, and leave us alone." "I mean to do so," said Brandon independently, "but, as I shan't get the money for three or four days, I should like to borrow five dollars, and I'll repay you double within a week." "That's a very generous offer," said Grit, "but I don't lend without better security." "Isn't there anything to eat in the house, Mrs. B.?" asked Brandon, changing the subject. "I'm famished." "You will find some cold meat, and bread, and butter in the pantry." Brandon went to the pantry, and satisfied his appetite as well as he could. He then went out, and Grit soon followed. "Mother," he said, "I have an important call to make, but will be back soon." It will be remembered that Mr. Courtney had formerly been president of the bank, but proving unpopular in consequence of his disposition to manage it in his own interest, Mr. Philo Graves, a manufacturer, was put in his place. To the house of Mr. Graves Grit directed his steps. CHAPTER XXII. BANK OFFICIALS IN COUNCIL. Mr. Graves was at home, but he was not alone. Mr. Courtney had dropped in, and as he was still a director of the bank, it was natural that the conversation should turn upon affairs of the bank in which he and Mr. Graves had a common interest. Though no longer president, Mr. Courtney was still anxious to control the affairs of the bank, and to make it of as much service to himself as possible. He had recently become interested in certain speculative securities, through a firm of Wall Street brokers, and finding himself rather cramped for money, desired to obtain a loan on them from the bank. To this end he had sought a preliminary interview with Mr. Graves, previous to making a formal application to the full board of directors. "You are aware, Mr. Courtney," said the president, "that to grant your request would be contrary to the general usage of the bank." "I ought to know the usage of the bank, having served as president for three years," said Mr. Courtney. "In my time such loans were made." Mr. Graves was aware of this, but he was also aware that such loans had been made on the former president's sole authority, and either to himself or some one of his friends, and that it was on account of this very circumstance that he had been removed from office. "I know that such loans were made, but I am equally certain that such a course would not meet the approval of the directors." "But," insinuated Mr. Courtney, "if you openly favored it, and my vote as director was given, we could probably influence enough other votes to accomplish our object." "I cannot say whether this would or would not follow," said Mr. Graves, "but I am bound to say for myself that I cannot recommend, or vote for, granting such a loan." "Perhaps you think I am not responsible," said Mr. Courtney, irritated. "I presume you are, but that ought not to be considered, when the question is about violating our fixed usage." "It seems to me, considering my official connection with the bank, that a point might be strained in my favor." "That is not my view, Mr. Courtney; although I am now president, I should not care to ask any special favor of the bank. I prefer to be treated like any other customer." Mr. Courtney mentally voted Graves slow and behind the times. In his views, one great advantage of holding a high financial position was to favor himself and his own interests, without special regard to the welfare of the corporation or stockholders. "You wouldn't find many bank presidents agree with you, Mr. Graves," said Courtney impatiently. "I am sorry to hear it," returned the president gravely. "It seems to me that I owe a duty to the stockholders of the bank which ought to override any personal considerations." "You are very quixotic in your ideas," said Courtney coldly. "I am sure I am right, at any rate," returned Graves firmly. "I consider your refusal unfriendly--nay, more, I think it is calculated to throw suspicion on my financial position." "Not at all. I have no reason to doubt your financial stability, and as to the unkindness, when I distinctly state that I would not ask such a favor for myself, you will see that I am disposed to treat you as well as myself." "It may be so," sneered Courtney, "but I presume you are not at present in need of a personal loan, and--circumstances alter cases, you know." "If you mean that I shall at any future time ask favors for myself, which, I am not disposed to grant to you, you are mistaken," said the president. "My financial position is as strong as yours," said Courtney rather irrelevantly. "Very probably you are a richer man than I am, but as I said, that is not in question." At this point a servant entered, and said to the president: "Mr. Graves, there is a boy outside who says he wants to see you." "What boy is it?" "Grit Morris." "Very well; you can bring him in." "The young boatman," said Courtney contemptuously. "I wouldn't allow a boy like that to take up my time." "He may have something of importance to communicate. Besides, I don't set so high a value on my time." This will illustrate the difference between the two men. Mr. Graves was pleasant and affable to all, while Mr. Courtney was stiff, and apparently always possessed of a high idea of his own importance and dignity. In this respect, his son Phil was his counterpart. Into the presence of these two gentlemen Grit was admitted. "Good morning, Grit," said the president pleasantly. "Take a seat. Margaret tells me you wish to see me." "Yes, sir, I wish to see you on a matter of importance." "Perhaps he wants a loan from the bank," suggested Mr. Courtney scornfully. "If Grit wanted a loan, he would not need to apply to the bank," said Mr. Graves, in a friendly manner. "I would lend him, myself." "Thank you, Mr. Graves," said Grit gratefully, "but I don't wish any loan for myself. My business relates to the bank, however." Both gentlemen were rather surprised to hear this. They could not understand what business Grit could have with the bank. "Go on, Grit," said Mr. Graves. "Mr. Courtney is one of our directors, so that you may speak freely before him." "I understand," commenced Grit, coming at once to the point, "that you are intending to send up thirty thousand dollars in government bonds to the Merchants' Bank, in Boston." Mr. Graves and Mr. Courtney looked at each other in surprise. This was a bank secret, and such matters were generally kept very close with them. "How did you learn this?" asked the president, in surprise, "and if so, what can you have to say in regard to it?" "Perhaps he wants to be the messenger," said Mr. Courtney, with a derisive smile. Grit took no notice of this, for his mind was occupied with the plan of the would-be robbers. "I will tell you at once," he said. "There is a plan to waylay the messenger, and relieve him of the bonds." Here was a fresh surprise. Mr. Graves began to find Grit's communication of absorbing interest. "How do you know this?" he asked cautiously. "Because I overheard the robbers discussing their plan." "You say the robbers. Then there are more than one?" "Yes, there are two." "Are you willing to tell me who they are, Grit?" "That is what I came to tell you. I am sorry to say that one is my stepfather, as I am obliged to call him, Mr. Brandon." "Mr. Brandon? I thought he was----" Here Mr. Graves paused, out of delicacy. "He has been in prison until a few days since," said Grit, understanding what the president of the bank intended to say, "but now he is free." "And where is he?" "He is living at our house. Since he got back, he has given my mother and myself a great deal of trouble. Not content with living on us, he has spent what money he could get at the tavern, and because I would give him no more, he sold my boat without my knowledge." "That was bad, Grit. To whom did he sell it?" asked Mr. Graves. "To Mr. Courtney's son Phil!" answered Grit. "My son's name is Philip," said Mr. Courtney stiffly. "We boys generally call him Phil," said Grit, smiling. "However, that doesn't matter." "My son had a right to purchase the boat," said Mr. Courtney. "I have nothing to say as to that, at any rate now," returned Grit. "I only mention it to show how Mr. Brandon has treated us." "Who was the other conspirator, Grit?" asked Graves. "A companion of Mr. Brandon's, named Travers. I understand they are to be employed by a third person, now staying at the hotel, a man named Johnson." "One thing more, Grit, how did you come to hear of their plan?" Grit answered this question fully. He related how he had overheard the conference between his stepfather and Travers in the afternoon. "This information is of great importance, Grit," said the president. "If, as you say, there are three conspirators, there would be a very good chance of their succeeding in overpowering any messenger, and abstracting the bonds. As it happens, the bonds do not belong to the bank, but to an individual depositor, but it would be very unpleasant and mortifying to have them taken from our messenger. It might lead to a supposition on the part of some that we didn't keep our secrets well, but suffered a matter as important as this to become known outside. Mr. Courtney, what would you advise to be done in such an emergency?" Courtney always looked important when his advice was asked, and answered promptly: "It is a very simple matter. Put the messenger on his guard. Supply him with a revolver, if need be, and if he is on the watch he can't be robbed." Mr. Graves looked thoughtful, and appeared to be turning over this advice in his mind. "If Mr. Courtney will excuse me," Grit said, "I think there is a better plan than that." Courtney's lip curled. "Ask the boy's advice, by all means, Mr. Graves," he said, with a palpable sneer. "It must be very valuable, considering his experience and knowledge of the world." CHAPTER XXIII. GRIT GIVES IMPORTANT ADVICE. "Let me hear your idea, Grit," said Mr. Graves courteously. "I have little experience or knowledge of the world," said Grit, "as Mr. Courtney says, or means to say, but it occurs to me to ask whether you have full confidence in your messenger?" "Of course we have," said Mr. Courtney. "What foolish idea have you got in your head?" "Tell me why this question occurs to you, Grit?" asked the president. "I thought it possible that this Colonel Johnson, who employs the conspirators, as you call them, may have learned from the messenger that he was to be entrusted with a valuable package of bonds." "Why on earth should the messenger reveal this news to a stranger?" demanded Mr. Courtney sharply. "Because," said Grit quietly, not allowing himself to be disturbed by the sneering tone of the ex-president, "he might be well paid for doing so." "Nonsense!" said Mr. Courtney, but the president of the bank said thoughtfully: "There may be something in that." "I am sure the messenger is faithful," asserted Mr. Courtney positively, but it may be remarked that his confidence sprang rather from a desire to discredit Grit's suggestion than from any real belief in the integrity of the bank messenger. "It isn't best to take this integrity for granted in a matter where a mistake would subject us to serious loss," observed President Graves. "I hope he is reliable, but I do not shut my eyes to the fact that such a price as he might demand for conniving with these conspirators would be a strong temptation to a poor man like Ephraim Carver." "What are you going to do about it?" asked Courtney. "For my part I am free to confess that I attach very little importance to the astounding discovery of this young man, who knows a good deal more, I presume, about managing a boat than managing a bank." "You are right there, Mr. Courtney," said Grit good-naturedly. "I don't want Mr. Graves to attach any more importance to my suggestion than he thinks it deserves." "Whatever your suggestion may be worth, Grit," said the president of the bank, "there can be no doubt that you have brought me news of great importance. I shall not forget the obligation the bank is under to you." Mr. Courtney shrugged his shoulders. "The story looks to me very improbable," he said. "If I were still president of the bank, I should probably dismiss it as an idle fabrication." "Then, Mr. Courtney," said Mr. Graves emphatically, "permit me to say that you would be wanting in your duty to the bank and its interests." "I understand the duties of a bank president at least as well as you, Mr. Graves," said Mr. Courtney stiffly. "After that remark you will not be surprised if I bid you good evening." "Good evening!" said the president quietly, not attempting to call back or placate the offended director. "Perhaps I had better go, too," said Grit, rising from his chair. "No, Grit, stay a few minutes longer; I wish to inquire further into this affair." "Certainly, Mr. Graves, I will stay, with pleasure." Mr. Courtney heard this fragment of conversation, and it led him to say with pointed sarcasm, as he stood with the knob of the door in his hand: "Perhaps I had better resign my position, and suggest this young boatman as bank director in my place." "I doubt whether Grit would consider himself competent to discharge the duties of a director," said Mr. Graves, smiling. "It may come in time." Mr. Courtney shut the door hastily, and left the room. "Mr. Courtney is rather a peculiar man; you needn't mind him, Grit," said Mr. Graves, when the ruffled director was gone. "He doesn't like me very much, nor Phil, either," said Grit. "It is lucky you are president of the bank now, and not he, for there is no humbug about the news I bring you." "I consider it highly important," said Mr. Graves, "as I have already stated. I am a little puzzled as to what I ought to do in the matter. As you say, the messenger himself may be in the plot. By the way, what put that idea into your head?" "I didn't know how otherwise Colonel Johnson could have learned about the bonds being sent up to Boston." "Frequently the messenger himself is ignorant of the service he is to render, but in this particular instance it happened that I told Mr. Carver that I should have occasion to send him to Boston this week, and for what purpose." "I am sorry that one who is in any way connected with our family should be concerned in such a plot," said Grit. "Of course; that is natural. Still, you did your duty in telling me of it. Whatever consequences may follow, you have done right." "I can't take much credit to myself for that," said Grit, "since I don't like Mr. Brandon, and it would be a great relief both to my mother and myself if he were away." "As I have already consulted you on this matter, Grit," said the bank president, after a pause, "I am disposed to consult you further. Have you any advice to offer as to the best course to pursue?" "Yes, sir," answered Grit. "As long as you don't think it presumption in me, I will tell you of a plan I thought of as I was coming here. In the first place, I would send the messenger as usual, without letting him know that he was suspected." "But that would involve risks, wouldn't it Grit," objected Mr. Graves. "We can't afford to lose the bonds." "I did not intend that he should carry the bonds," continued Grit. "I would make up a parcel, filled with old papers, of about the same size, and let him think he was carrying the bonds." "So far, so good, but what of the bonds? They would still be here, when we want them delivered in Boston." "I have thought of that," said Grit promptly. "Either a little before or a little afterward, I would send them by another messenger." "Good, Grit! You're a trump!" said the banker, his face lighting up. "It's a capital plan. But one thing you have forgotten. We shall not in this way ascertain whether the messenger is in collusion with the conspirators--that is, not necessarily." "I think you can, sir. As I understand, this is the way in which the theft will be accomplished: The conspirators will make up a bundle of the same shape as the messenger's, and slyly substitute it at some point on the route. They will not openly rob him, for there will be no chance of doing so without attracting attention." "If the messenger is careful, they could not easily substitute a false for the true package." "That is true, and that is the reason why I think the messenger is in league with them. If he is careless, the change can easily be made. I understand Brandon and Travers are to receive five thousand dollars each for their services, and Colonel Johnson may, perhaps, have offered the same sum to Mr. Carver." "It would be a great temptation to a man employed on a small salary like Carver," said Mr. Graves thoughtfully. "What do you think of my plan, Mr. Graves?" asked Grit. "I think it a capital one. I shall adopt it in every detail. The only thing that remains is to decide whom to employ to carry the genuine package of bonds to Boston. Do you think of any one?" Grit shook his head. "No, sir, I don't know of any one." "I do," said the president. "Who is it?" asked Grit, with considerable curiosity. "I mean to send you!" answered Mr. Graves. CHAPTER XXIV. WHAT GRIT OVERHEARD BEHIND THE ELM-TREE. Grit listened with incredulous amazement to the words of the bank president. "You mean to send me?" he ejaculated. "Yes," answered Mr. Graves, nodding. "But I am only a boy!" "That is true; but you have shown a sagacity and good judgment which justify me in selecting you, young as you are. Of course, I shall take care that you are paid for your time. Now, are you willing to go?" Willing to go to Boston, where he had not been for five years? Grit did not take long to consider. "Yes," he answered promptly. "If you are willing to trust me, I am willing to go." "That is well," said the president. "I need hardly caution you to keep your errand a profound secret." "You must not even tell your mother," continued Mr. Graves. "But she will feel anxious if I go away without a word to her." "You mistake me. I would not for the world have you give her unnecessary anxiety. You may tell her that you are employed on an errand which may detain you from home a day or two, and ask her not to question you till you return." "Yes, I can say that," returned Grit. "Mother will very likely think Mr. Jackson has employed me." "Mr. Jackson?" "A gentleman now staying at the hotel. He has already been very kind to me." If Grit had been boastful or vainglorious, he would have given the particulars of his rescue of little Willie Jackson from drowning. As it was, he said no more than I have recorded above. "Very well," answered the president. "Your mother will not, at any rate, think you are in any mischief, as she knows you too well for that." "When do you want me to go, sir?" asked Grit. "Let me see. To-day is Wednesday, and Friday is the day when we had decided to send the messenger. He was to go by the morning train. I think I will send you off in advance by the evening train of Thursday. Then the bonds will be in the bank at Boston, while the regular messenger is still on the way." "That will suit me very well, sir." "The train starts at ten o'clock. You can be at the train at half-past nine. I will be there at the same hour, and will have the bonds with me. I will at the same time provide you with money for the journey." "All right, sir. Do you want to see me any time to-morrow?" "No. I think it best that we should not be too much together. Even then, I don't think any one would suspect that I would employ you on such an errand. Still, it will be most prudent not to do anything to arouse suspicion." "Then, Mr. Graves, I will bid you good night," said Grit, rising. "I thank you very much for the confidence you are going to repose in me. I will do my best, so that you may not have occasion to repent it." "I don't expect to repent it," said Mr. Graves, shaking hands with Grit in a friendly manner. When the young boatman left the house of the bank president, it was natural that he should feel a thrill of pride as the thought of the important mission on which he was to be sent. Then again, it was exhilarating to reflect that he was about to visit Boston. He had lived at Chester for five years and more, and during that time he had once visited Portland. That was an exciting day for him; but Boston he knew was a great deal larger than the beautiful city of which Maine people are pardonably proud, and contained possibilities of pleasure and excitement which filled him with eager anticipations. But Grit knew that his journey was undertaken not for his own enjoyment, but was to be an important business mission, and he resolved that he would do his duty, even if he did not have a bit of fun. As he thought over the business on which he was to be employed, his thoughts reverted to Ephraim Carver, the bank messenger, and the more he thought of him, the more he suspected that he was implicated in the projected robbery. It was perhaps this thought that led him to make a detour so that he could pass the house of the messenger. It was a small cottage-house, standing back from the street, from which a narrow lane led to it. Connected with it were four or five acres of land, which might have yielded quite an addition to his income, but Mr. Carver was not very fond of working on land, and he let it lie fallow, making scarcely any use of it. Until he obtained the position of bank messenger he had a hard time getting a living, and was generally regarded as rather a shiftless man. He was connected with the wife of one of the directors, and that was the way in which he secured his position. Now he received a small salary, but one on which he might have lived comfortably in a cheap place like Chester. But in spite of this he was dissatisfied, and on many occasions complained of the difficulty he experienced in making both ends meet. Grit turned down the lane and approached the house. He hardly knew why he did so. He had no expectation of learning anything that would throw light on the question whether Carver was or was not implicated in the conspiracy. Still, he was drawn toward the house. The night was quite dark, but Grit knew every step of the way, and he walked slowly up the lane, which was probably two hundred feet long. He had gone, perhaps, half the distance, when he saw the front door of Carver's house open. Mr. Carver himself could be seen in the doorway with a kerosene-lamp in his hand, and at his side was a person whom with a thrill of surprise Grit recognized as the man staying at the hotel under the name of Colonel Johnson. "That looks suspicious," thought Grit. "I am afraid the messenger is guilty." He reflected that it would not do for either of them to see him, as it might render them suspicious. He took advantage of the darkness, and the fact that the two were not looking his way, to jump over the stone wall and hide behind the broad trunk of the lofty elm which stood just in that spot. "I wish I could hear what they are saying," thought Grit. "Then I should know for certain if my suspicions are well founded." The two men stood at the door for the space of a minute or more, and then the stranger departed, but not alone. Ephraim Carver took his hat and accompanied him, both walking slowly up the lane toward the main road. By a piece of good luck, as Grit considered it, they halted beneath the very elm-tree behind which he lay concealed. These were the first words Grit heard spoken: "My dear friend," said Johnson, in bland, persuasive accents, "there isn't a particle of danger in it. You have only to follow my directions, and all will be well." "I shall find it hard to explain how it happened that I lost the package," said Carver. "Not at all! You will have a facsimile in your possession--one so like that no one need wonder that you mistook it for the original. Undoubtedly you will be charged with negligence, but they can't prove anything more against you. You can stand being found fault with for five thousand dollars, can't you?" "If that is all, I won't mind. I shall probably lose my situation." "Suppose you do; it brings you in only six hundred dollars a year, while we pay you in one lump five thousand dollars--over eight times as much. Why, man, the interest of this sum at six per cent. will yield half as much as your annual salary." "The bank people ought to pay me more," said Carver. "Two months since I asked them to raise me to eight hundred a year, but they wouldn't. There was only one of the directors in favor of it--the man who married my wife's cousin." "They don't appreciate you, friend Carver," said Johnson. "How can they expect you to be honest, when they treat you in so niggardly a manner?" "Just so," said Carver, eager to find some justification for his intended treachery. "If they paid me a living salary, I wouldn't do this thing you ask of me." "As it is, they have only themselves to blame," said Colonel Johnson. "That's the way I look at it," said the bank messenger. "And quite right, too! I shouldn't be surprised if you managed to keep your place, after all. They won't suspect you of anything more than carelessness." "That would be splendid!" returned Carver. "With my salary and the interest of five thousand dollars, I could live as comfortably as I wanted to. How soon shall I receive the money?" "As soon as we can dispose of the bonds safely. It won't be long." Here the two men parted, and Carver returned to his house. Grit crept out from behind the elm-tree when the coast was clear, and made his way home. He had learned a most important secret, but resolved to communicate it only to Mr. Graves. CHAPTER XXV. MRS. BRANDON IS MYSTIFIED. When Grit explained to his mother that he was going away for a day or two on a journey, she was naturally surprised, and asked for particulars. "I should like to tell you, mother," said the young boatman, "but there are reasons why I cannot. It is a secret mission, and the secret is not mine." "That is perfectly satisfactory, Grit," said Mrs. Brandon. "I have full confidence in you, and know I can trust you." "After I return I shall probably be able to tell you all," said Grit. "Meanwhile, I shall, no doubt, be paid better than if I were ferrying passengers across the river." "At any rate, I shall be glad to see you back. We have not been separated for a night for years, or, indeed, since you were born." The next day, Mr. Brandon, taught by experience that he need not look for his meals at home, went over to the tavern to breakfast. He felt unusually independent and elated, for he had money in his pocket, obtained from Colonel Johnson, and he expected soon to receive the handsome sum of five thousand dollars. A shrewder man, in order to avert suspicion, would have held his tongue, at least until he had performed the service for which he was to be so liberally paid; but Brandon could not forego the opportunity to boast a little. "It is quite possible, Mrs. B.," he said, in the morning, "that I may leave you in a day or two, to be gone a considerable time." Mrs. B. did not show the expected curiosity, but received the communication in silence. "You don't inquire where I am going," said Brandon. "Where do you propose to go?" asked his wife, whose chief feeling was that she and Grit would now be left to their old quiet and peace. "I may go to Europe," said Mr. Brandon, in an important tone. "Isn't this a new plan?" asked Mrs. Brandon, really surprised. "Yes, it is new. I shall go on business, Mrs. B. My friend Travers and I will probably go together. You and Grit made a great mistake when you treated him with rudeness. It is through him that I am offered most remunerative employment." "I don't enjoy the society of your friend," said Mrs. Brandon. "If he is likely to give you a chance to earn something, I am glad, but that does not excuse the rudeness with which he treated me." "My friend Travers is a gentleman, Mrs. B., a high-toned gentleman, and if you had treated him with the respect which is his due, you would have had nothing to complain of. As it is, you may soon discover that you have made a mistake, and lost a great pleasure. I had not intended to tell you, but I am tempted to do so, that but for your impoliteness to Travers, I might have taken you and Grit with me on a European tour." Mr. Brandon watched his wife, to see if she exhibited severe disappointment at the dazzling prospect which was no sooner shown than withdrawn, but she showed her usual equanimity. "Grit and I will be quite as happy at home," she answered. "Sour grapes!" thought Brandon, but he was wrong. A tour of Europe taken in his company would have no attractions for his wife. "Very well," said Brandon. "You and Grit are welcome to the charms of Pine Point. As for me, it is too small and contracted for a man of my business capacity." "I wonder whether there is any truth in what he says," thought Mrs. Brandon, puzzled. "Your business seems a profitable one," she ventured to remark. "It is, Mrs. B.," answered her husband. "It is of an unusually delicate nature, and requires business talents of a high order." "Your friend Travers does not impress one as a man possessed of a high order of business talent," said Mrs. Brandon. "That is where you fail to appreciate him, but I cannot say more. My business is secret, and cannot be revealed." So saying, Brandon took his hat, and with a jaunty step walked to the hotel. "More secrecy!" thought Mrs. Brandon. "Grit tells me that his mission is a secret one, and now Mr. Brandon says he, too, is engaged in something that cannot be revealed. I know that it is all right with Grit, but I do not feel so sure about Mr. Brandon." The day passed as usual. Grit plied his boat on the river, and did a fair day's work. But about four o'clock he came home. "You are home early, Grit," said his mother. "Yes, for I must get ready to go." He had not yet mentioned to his mother when he was to start. "Do you go to-morrow morning?" asked Mrs. Brandon. "I go to-night, and may be away for a couple of days, mother." Mrs. Brandon uttered an exclamation of surprise. "I suppose I must not ask you where you are going," said his mother. "I cannot tell, for it is somebody else's secret. One thing more, will you take care to say as little as possible about my going away? I would rather Mr. Brandon should not know of it." "I will do as you wish, Grit. By the way, Mr. Brandon tells me he is soon going to Europe." Grit smiled. He knew where the money was to come from, which his stepfather depended upon to defray the expenses of a foreign journey. "I don't feel sure about his going, mother," he answered. "He said he would have taken you and me if we had treated his friend Travers more politely." "Well, mother, we must reconcile ourselves as well as we can to staying at home." "Home will be happy while I have you with me, Grit." "And Mr. Brandon away," added the young boatman. "Yes; I can't help hoping that he will be able to carry out his purpose, and go to Europe, or somewhere else as far off." "I think it very likely we sha'n't see him again for some time," said Grit, "though I don't think he will be traveling in Europe." "As you and Mr. Brandon are both to be engaged in business of a secret nature," said Mrs. Brandon, smiling, "I don't know but I ought to follow your example." "I have full confidence in you, mother, whatever you undertake," said Grit, with a laugh, repeating his mother's own words. Evening came on, and Grit stole out of the house early, lest his stepfather might by some chance return home, and suspect something from his unusual journey. He need not have been alarmed, for Brandon did not leave the tavern till ten o'clock, though he, too, expected to leave town the next morning. When he returned he didn't inquire for Grit, whom he supposed to be abed and asleep. "Mrs. B.," he said, "I must trouble you to wake me at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. I am going to take the early train to Portland." "Very well." "And as it will be rather inconvenient for me to go out to breakfast, I would be glad if you would give me some breakfast before I go." "I will do so," said his wife. "It may be some time before I see you again, as I am to go away on business." "I hope you may be successful," said Mrs. Brandon. Brandon laughed queerly. "If the old lady knew that I was going to steal some government bonds, she would hesitate a little before she wished me success," he thought, but he said: "Thank you, Mrs. B., your good wishes are appreciated, and I may hereafter be able to show my appreciation in a substantial way. I suppose Grit is asleep." Mrs. Brandon did not answer, finding the question an embarrassing one. The next morning Brandon, contrary to his wont, showed considerable alacrity in dressing, and did justice to the breakfast his wife had set before him. "Well, good-bye, Mrs. B.," he said, as he took his hat and prepared to leave the house. "Perhaps I had better go up-stairs and bid good-by to Grit, as I may not see him again for some time." "Grit is out," said Mrs. Brandon hastily, for she did not wish her husband to go up to Grit's room, as he would discover that his bed had not been slept in. "Out already?" said Brandon. "He's made an early start. Well, bid him good-by for me." "It's very strange," repeated Mrs. Brandon, as she cleared away the breakfast dishes; "there's Grit gone, I don't know where, and now Mr. Brandon has started off on some mysterious business. What can it all mean?" CHAPTER XXVI. THE FALL RIVER MANUFACTURER. Grit lost no time in prosecuting his journey. In Portland he found that he should need to stay over a few hours, and repaired to the United States Hotel. He left word to be called early, as he wished to take a morning train to Boston. At the breakfast-table he found himself sitting next to a man of swarthy complexion and bushy black whiskers. "Good morning, my young friend," said the stranger, after a scrutinizing glance. "Good morning, sir," said Grit politely. "Are you stopping at this hotel?" "For the present, yes," answered the young boatman. "Are you going farther?" "I think of it," said Grit cautiously. "Perhaps you are going to Boston," proceeded the stranger. "I may do so," Grit admitted. "I am glad of it, for I am going, too. If agreeable, we will travel in company." "I suppose we shall go on the same train?" said Grit evasively. "Just so. I am going to Boston on business. You, I suppose, are too young to have business of any importance?" "Boys of my age seldom have business of importance," said Grit, resolved to baffle the evident curiosity of the stranger. "Exactly. I suppose you have relations in Boston?" "I once lived in that neighborhood," said Grit. "Just so. Are you going to stay long in the city?" "That depends on circumstances?" "Do you live in this State?" "At present I do." The man looked a little annoyed, for he saw that Grit was determined to say as little about himself as possible. He decided to set the boy an example of frankness. "I do not live in Maine," he said; "I am a manufacturer in Fall River, Mass. I suppose you have heard of Fall River?" "Oh, yes!" "It is a right smart place, as a Philadelphian would say. You never heard of Townsend's Woolen Mill, I dare say?" "No, I never have." "It is one of the largest mills in Fall River. I own a controlling interest in it. I assure you I wouldn't take a hundred thousand dollars for my interest in it." "You ought to be in very easy circumstances," said Grit politely, though it did occur to him to wonder why the owner of a controlling interest in a large woolen mill should be attired in such a rusty suit. "I am," said the stranger complacently. "Daniel Townsend's income--I am Daniel T., at your service--for last year was twelve thousand three hundred and sixty-nine dollars." "This gentleman seems very communicative," thought Grit. "Your income was rather larger than mine," he said. "Ho, ho! I should say so," laughed Mr. Townsend. "Are you in any business, my young friend?" "I am connected with navigation," said Grit. "Indeed?" observed Townsend, appearing puzzled. "Do you find it a paying business?" "Tolerably so, but I presume woolen manufacturing is better?" "Just so," assented Townsend, rather absently. At this point Grit rose from the table, having finished his breakfast. "Mr. Townsend seems very social," thought our hero, "but I think he is given to romancing. I don't believe he has anything more to do with a woolen mill in Fall River than I have." Grit reached the station in time, and took his seat in the train. He bought a morning paper, and began to read. "Ah, here you are, my young friend!" fell on his ears just after they passed Saco, and Grit, looking up, saw his breakfast companion. "Is the seat beside you taken?" asked Mr. Daniel Townsend. Grit would like to have said "yes," but he was compelled to admit that it was unengaged. "So much the better for me," said the woolen manufacturer, and he sat down beside our hero. He had with him a small, well-worn valise, which looked as if in some remote period it had seen better days. He laid it down, and, looking keenly about, observed Grit's parcel, which, though commonplace in appearance, contained, as we know, thirty thousand dollars in government bonds. "It is rather a long ride to Boston," said Mr. Townsend. "Yes; but it seems shorter when you have something to read," answered Grit, looking wistfully at his paper, which he would have preferred reading to listening to the conversation of his neighbor. "I never care to read on the cars," said Mr. Townsend. "I think it is injurious to the eyes. Do you ever find it so?" "I have not traveled enough to be able to judge," said Grit. "Very likely. At your age I had traveled a good deal. My father was a rich merchant, and as I was fond of roving, he sent me on a voyage to the Mediterranean on one of his vessels. I was sixteen at that time." "I wonder whether this is true, or not," thought Grit. "I enjoyed the trip, though I was seasick on the Mediterranean. It is really more trying than the ocean, though you might not imagine it. Don't you think you would enjoy a trip of that sort?" "Yes; I am sure I would," said Grit, with interest. "Just so; most boys of your age are fond of traveling. Perhaps I might find it in my way to gratify your wishes. Our corporation is thinking of sending a traveler to Europe. You are rather young, but still I might be able to get it for you." "You know so little about me," said Grit sensibly, "that I wonder you should think of me in any such connection." "That is true. I don't know anything of you, except what you have told me." "That isn't much," thought Grit. "And it may be necessary for me to know more. I will ask you a few questions, and report your answers to our directors at their meeting next week." "Thank you, sir; but I think we will postpone discussing the matter this morning." "Is any time better than the present?" inquired Townsend. Grit did not care to say much about himself until after he had fulfilled his errand in the city. He justly felt that with such an important charge it was necessary for him to use the greatest caution and circumspection. Still, there was a bare possibility that the man beside him was really what he claimed to be, and might have it in his power to give him a business commission which he would enjoy. "If you will call on me at the Parker House this evening," said Grit, "I will speak with you on the subject." "Whom shall I inquire for?" asked the Fall River manufacturer. "You need not inquire for any one. You will find me in the reading-room at eight o'clock." "Very well," answered Mr. Townsend, appearing satisfied. The conversation drifted along till they reached Exeter. Then Mr. Townsend rose in haste, and, seizing Grit's bundle instead of his own, hurried toward the door. Grit sprang after him and snatched the precious package. "You have made a mistake, Mr. Townsend," he said, eyeing his late seat companion with distrust. "Why, so I have!" ejaculated Townsend, in apparent surprise. "By Jove! it's lucky you noticed it. That little satchel of mine contains some papers and certificates of great value." "In that case I would advise you to be more careful," said Grit, who did not believe one word of the last statement. "So I will," said Townsend, taking the satchel. "I am going into the smoking-car. Won't you go with me?" "No, thank you." "I have a spare cigar," urged Townsend. "Thank you again, but I don't smoke." "Oh, well, you're right, no doubt, but it's an old habit of mine. I began to smoke when I was twelve years old. My wife often tells me I am injuring my health, and perhaps I am. Take the advice of a man old enough to be your father, and don't smoke." "That's good advice, sir, and I shall probably follow it." "Well, good day, if we don't meet again," said Townsend. Mr. Townsend, instead of passing into the smoking-car, got off the train. Grit observed this, and was puzzled to account for it, particularly as the train started on, leaving him standing on the platform. A few minutes later the conductor passed through the train, calling for tickets. Grit looked in vain for his, and, deciding that he should have to pay the fare over again, he felt for his pocketbook, but that, too, was missing. He began to understand why Mr. Townsend left the train at Exeter. CHAPTER XXVII. A FRIEND IN NEED. The conductor waited while Grit was searching for his ticket. He was not the same one who started with the train, so that he could not know whether our hero had shown a ticket earlier in the journey. "I can't find my ticket or my money," said Grit, perplexed. "Then you will have to leave the train at the next station," said the conductor suspiciously. "It is very important that I should proceed on my journey," pleaded Grit. "I will give you my name, and send you the money." "That won't do, youngster," said the conductor roughly. "I have heard of that game before. It won't go down." "There is no game about it," said Grit. "My ticket and pocketbook have been stolen." "Of course," sneered the conductor. "Perhaps you can point out the thief." "No, I can't, for he has left the train. He got out at Exeter." "Very likely. You can take the next train back and find him." "Do you doubt that I had a ticket?" asked Grit, nettled by the conductor's evident incredulity. "Yes, I do, if you want the truth. You want to steal a ride; that's what's the matter." "That is not true," said Grit. "I am sure some of these passengers have seen me show my ticket. Didn't you, sir?" He addressed this question to a stout old gentleman who sat in the seat behind him. "Really, I couldn't say," answered the old gentleman addressed. "I was reading my paper, and didn't take notice." The conductor looked more incredulous than ever. "I can't waste any more time with you, young man," he said. "At the next station you must get out." Grit was very much disturbed. It was not pleasant to be left penniless at a small station, but if he had been left alone he would not have cared so much. But to have the custody of thirty thousand dollars' worth of government bonds, under such circumstances, was certainly embarrassing. He could not get along without money, and for a tramp without money to be in charge of such a treasure was ample cause of suspicion. What could he do? The train was already going slower, and it was evident that the next station was near at hand. Grit was trying in vain to think of some way of securing a continuation of his journey, when a stout, good-looking lady of middle age, who sat just opposite, rose from her seat and seated herself beside him. "You seem to be in trouble," she said kindly. "Yes, ma'am," answered Grit. "My ticket and money have been stolen, and the conductor threatens to put me off the train." "So I heard. Who do you think robbed you?" "The man who sat beside me and got out at Exeter." "I noticed him. I wonder you didn't detect him in the act of robbing you." "So do I," answered Grit. "He must be a professional. All the same, I am ashamed of being so taken in." "I heard you say it was important for you to reach Boston." "It is," said Grit. He was about to explain why, when it occurred to him that it would not be prudent in a crowded car, which might contain suspicious and unprincipled persons, to draw attention to the nature of his packet. "I can't explain why just at present," he said; "but if any one would lend me money to keep on my journey I would willingly repay the loan two for one." At this point the train came to a stop, and the conductor, passing through the car, addressed Grit: "Young man, you must get out at this station." "No, he needn't," said the stout lady decidedly. "Here, my young friend, pay your fare out of this," and she drew from a pearl portemonnaie a ten-dollar bill. Grit's heart leaped for joy. It was such an intense relief. "How can I ever thank you?" he said gratefully, as he offered the change to his new friend. "No," she said; "keep the whole. You will need it, and you can repay me whenever you find it convenient." "That will be as soon as I get home," said Grit promptly. "I have the money there." "That will be entirely satisfactory." "Let me know your name and address, madam," said Grit, taking out a small memorandum-book, "so that I may know where to send." "Mrs. Jane Bancroft, No. 37 Mount Vernon Street," said the lady. Grit noted it down. "Let me tell you mine," he said. "My name is Harry Morris, and I live in the town of Chester, in Maine." "Chester? I know that place. I have a cousin living there, or, rather, I should say, a cousin of my late husband." "Who is it, Mrs. Bancroft?" asked Grit. "I know almost everybody in the village." "Mr. Courtney. I believe he has something to do with the bank." "Yes, he is a director. He was once president." "Exactly. Do you know him?" "Yes, ma'am. I saw him only a day or two before I left." "I presume you know his son Philip, also." "Oh, yes, I know Phil," said Grit. "Is he a friend of yours?" asked the lady curiously. "No, I can't say that. We don't care much for each other." "And whose fault is that?" asked the lady, smiling. "I don't think it is mine. I have always treated Phil well enough, but he doesn't think me a suitable associate for him." "Why?" "Because I am poor, while he is the son of a rich man." "That is as it may be," said the lady, shrugging her shoulders. "Money sometimes has wings. So you are not rich?" "I have to work for a living." "What do you do?" "I ferry passengers across the Kennebec, and in that way earn a living for my mother and myself." "Do you make it pay?" "I earn from seven to ten dollars a week." "That is doing very well for a boy of your age. What sort of a boy is Phil? Is he popular?" "I don't think he is." "Why?" "He is your nephew, Mrs. Bancroft, and I don't like to criticize him." "Never mind that. Speak freely." "He puts on too many airs to be popular. If he would just forget that his father is a rich man, and meet the rest of the boys on an equality, I think we should like him well enough." "That is just the opinion I have formed of him. Last winter he came to make me a visit, but I found him hard to please. He wanted a great deal of attention, and seemed disposed to order my servants about, till I was obliged to check him." "I remember hearing him say he was going to visit a rich relative in Boston," said Grit. Mrs. Bancroft smiled. "It was all for his own gratification, no doubt," she said. "So your name is Harry Morris?" "Yes, but I am usually called Grit." "A good omen. It is a good thing for any boy--especially a poor boy--to possess grit. Most of our successful men were poor boys, and most of them possessed this quality." "You encourage me, Mrs. Bancroft," said our hero. "I want to succeed in life, for my mother's sake especially." "I think you will; I have little knowledge of you, but you seem like one born to prosper. How long are you going to stay in Boston?" "Till to-morrow, at any rate." "You will be in the city overnight, then. Where did you think of staying?" "At the Parker House." "It is an expensive hotel. You had better stay at my house." "At your house?" exclaimed Grit, surprised. "Yes; I may want to ask more questions about Chester. We have tea at half-past six. That will give you plenty of time to attend to your business. I shall be at home any time after half-past five. Will you come?" "With pleasure," said Grit politely. "Then I will expect you." Mrs. Bancroft returned to her seat. Our hero mentally congratulated himself on making so agreeable and serviceable a friend. "What will Phil say when he learns that I have been the guest of his fashionable relatives in Boston?" thought he. In due time the train reached Boston, and Grit lost no time in repairing to the bank. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE TRAIN ROBBERY. When Grit had delivered the bonds at the bank, a great load seemed to be lifted from his shoulders. Especially after he had been robbed on the train, he realized the degree of risk and responsibility involved in the custody of so valuable a packet. The officials at the bank seemed surprised at the youth of the messenger, but Grit felt at liberty to explain why he was selected as a substitute for the regular messenger. Leaving our hero for a time, we go back to Chester to speak of other characters in our story. Ephraim Carver, the bank messenger, went to the bank at the hour of opening to receive the package of bonds which he expected to convey to Boston. He had no suspicion that his negotiations of a previous evening had been overheard and reported to the president. He felt somewhat nervous, it is true, for he felt that a few hours would make him a rich man. Then the risk involved, though he did not consider it to be great, was yet sufficient to excite him. He was admitted into the president's room, as usual. Mr. Graves was already in his office, but his manner was his ordinary one, and the messenger did not dream that the quiet official read him through and through and understood him thoroughly. "You know, I suppose, Mr. Carver," said President Graves, "that you are to go to Boston by the next train." "Yes, sir." "The packet you will carry is of unusual value, and requires an unusual degree of care and caution." "Yes, sir." "It contains thirty thousand dollars in government bonds," said the president, laying his hand on the prepared packet, which was in the usual form. "That is a fortune in itself," he added, closely scrutinizing the face of the messenger. He thought he detected a transient gleam of exultation in the eyes of the bank messenger. "Of course," he proceeded, "if it were known that you carried a packet of such value, there would be great danger of your being robbed. Indeed, you might be in some personal danger." "Yes, sir." "But as it is only known to you and the officers of the bank, there is no special danger. Still, I advise you to be more than usually vigilant, on account of the value of your charge." "Oh, yes, sir, I shall take good care of it," answered Carver, reaching out his hand for the packet. "Let me see, how long have you been in the employ of the bank?" asked the president. "Nearly three years, sir." "You have found it a light, easy position, have you not?" "Yes, sir, though, if you will allow me to say so, the salary is small." "True; but the expenses of living in Chester are small, also. However, we will not discuss that question now. Possibly at the end of the year, if they continue satisfied with you, the directors may increase your salary slightly. There cannot be a large increase." "I may not need an increase then," thought Carver. "With five thousand dollars to fall back upon, I shall feel independent." "You will report to me when you return," said Mr. Graves, as the messenger left the bank parlor. "Yes, sir, directly." The president fixed his eyes upon the vanishing figure of the messenger, and said to himself: "My friend, you have deliberately planned your own downfall. Greed of money has made you dishonest, but your plans are destined to miscarry, as this time to-morrow you and your confederates will be made aware." "Now," thought the bank messenger, as he bent his steps toward the railway station, "the path is clear. Here is what will completely change my fortunes, and lift me from an humble dependent to a comfortable position in life." Then he thought, with some dissatisfaction, that he was to receive but one-sixth of the value of the bonds, and that the man who employed him to betray his trust would be much more richly paid. However, in his case, there would be no risk of being personally implicated. No one could prove that he had allowed himself to be robbed. Even if suspicion fastened upon him, nothing could be proved. So, on the whole, perhaps it was better to be content with one-sixth than to incur greater risk, and the dread penalty of imprisonment for a term of years. On the railroad platform Carver glanced furtively about him. He easily recognized Brandon and Travers, who stood side by side, each having provided himself with a ticket. They on their side also glanced swiftly at him, and then turned away with a look of indifference. But they had not failed to notice the important packet which the bank messenger carried in his hand. "It is all right!" was the thought that passed through their minds. There was another passenger waiting for the train, whom they did not notice. He was a small, quiet, unpretentious-looking man, attired in a suit of pepper and salt, and looked like a retail merchant in a small way, going to Portland or Boston, to order goods. They would have been very much startled had they known that it was a Boston detective, who had been telegraphed for by Mr. Graves, and that his special business was to follow them and observe their actions. When the train reached the station Carver got in, and took a seat by himself in the second car. Just behind him sat the two confederates, Brandon and Travers, and in line with them, on the opposite side of the car, sat the quiet man, whom we will call Denton. Ten minutes before the train reached Portland Ephraim Carver left his seat, and very singularly forgot to take the parcel, of which he had special custody, with him. It was a remarkable piece of forgetfulness, truly. But his oversight was not unobserved. Travers sprang from his seat, took the parcel, and following the messenger overtook him at the door of the car. He tapped Carver on the shoulder, and the latter turned round. "I beg pardon," said Travers, "but you left this on the seat." As he spoke he handed a packet to Carver. "A thousand thanks!" said the messenger hurriedly. "I was very careless. I am very much indebted to you." "I thought the packet might contain something valuable," said Travers. "At any rate, I should not like to lose it," said the messenger, who appeared to be properly on his guard. "Oh, don't mention it," said Travers politely, and he walked back and resumed his seat beside Brandon. The quiet man, to whom we have already referred, noted this little piece of acting with a smile of enjoyment. "Very well done, good people," he said to himself. "It ought to succeed, but it won't." His sharp eyes had detected what the other passengers had not--that Travers had skilfully substituted another package for the one he had picked up from the seat vacated by Carver. Carver passed on into the next car, and Denton now concentrated his attention upon Brandon and Travers. He noticed in both traces of joyful excitement, for which he could easily account. They thought they had succeeded, and each mentally congratulated himself on the acquisition of a neat little fortune. "They will get out at Portland," thought Denton, "and take account of their booty. I should like to be there to see, but I am instructed to follow my friend the bank messenger to Boston, and must, therefore, forego the pleasure." At Portland, Brandon and Travers got out of the cars, and took a hack to the Falmouth Hotel. They went to the office, and, calling for the hotel register, carefully scanned the list of arrivals. The afternoon previous they found entered the name of Colonel Johnson. "Is Colonel Johnson in?" asked Brandon. "We will ascertain," was the reply. The bell-boy who was despatched to inquire returned with the message that Colonel Johnson would see the gentlemen. They followed the attendant to a room on the third floor, where they found their employer pacing the room in visible excitement. "Give me the parcel," he said, in a peremptory tone. He cut the strings, and hastily opened the coveted prize. But his eager look was succeeded by black disappointment, as, instead of the bonds, he saw a package of blank paper of about the same shape and size. "Confusion!" he ejaculated; "what does all this mean? What devil's mess have you made of the business?" CHAPTER XXIX. THE CONSPIRATORS ARE PERPLEXED. Johnson's hasty exclamation was heard with blank amazement by his two confederates. "What do you mean, Colonel? Ain't the bonds there?" asked Travers. "Do you call these bonds?" demanded Johnson savagely, as he pointed to the neatly folded brown paper. "You must have brought back your own parcel, and left the genuine one with the bank messenger." "No," said Travers, shaking his head; "our package was filled with old newspapers. This is different." "It is evidently only a dummy. Was it the only parcel Carver had?" "Yes, it was the only one." "Is it possible the villain has fooled us?" said Johnson, frowning ominously. "If he has, we'll get even with him--I swear it!" "I don't know what to think, colonel," said Travers. "You can tell better than I, for you saw him about this business." "He didn't seem like it, for he caught at my suggestion greedily. There's another possibility," added Johnson, after a pause, with a searching glance at his two confederates. "How do I know but you two have secured the bonds, and palmed off this dummy upon me?" Both men hastily disclaimed doing anything of the kind, and Johnson was forced to believe them, not from any confidence he felt in them, but from his conviction that they were not astute enough to think of any such treachery. "This must be looked into," he said slowly. "There has been treachery somewhere. It lies between you and the messenger, though I did not dream that either would be up to such a thing." "You don't think the bank people did it, do you?" suggested Brandon. "I don't know," said Johnson slowly. "I can't understand how they could learn what was in the wind, unless one of you three blabbed." Of course, Travers and Brandon asseverated stoutly that they had not breathed a word to any third party. Johnson was deeply perplexed, and remained silent for five minutes. At length he announced his decision. "We can do nothing, and decide upon nothing," he said, "till we see Carver. He went on to Boston, I conclude?" "Yes, sir." "He will be back to-morrow. We must watch the trains, and intercept him." Leaving this worthy trio in Portland, we follow Ephraim Carver to Boston. As the cars sped on their way, he felt an uneasy excitement as he thought of his treachery, and he feared he should look embarrassed when he was called to account by the Boston bank officials. But there was a balm in the thought of the substantial sum he was to receive as the reward of his wrongdoing. That, he thought, would well repay him for the bad quarter of an hour he would pass in Boston. "Five thousand dollars! Five thousand dollars!" This was the burden of his thoughts as he considered the matter. "It will make me independent. If I can keep my post, I will, and I can then afford to be faithful to the bank. If they discharge me, I will move away, for my living without work, and having money to spend, would attract suspicion if I continued to live in Chester. Somewhere else I can go into business for myself. I might stock a small dry-goods store, for instance. I must inquire into the chances of making a living at that business." So, in spite of his treachery, Ephraim Carver, on the whole, indulged in pleasing reflections, so that the railroad journey seemed short. Arrived in Boston, he found that he had just time to go to the bank and deliver his parcel within banking hours. "I may as well do it, and have it over with," he said to himself. So, with a return of nervousness, which he tried to conceal by outward indifference, he made his way to the bank to which he was commissioned. He had been there before, and was recognized when he entered. He was at once conducted into the presence of the president. To him he delivered the parcel of bonds. "That will do, Mr. Carver," said the president. "You may go outside while I examine them." He was ushered into the ordinary room, and waited five minutes. He was trying to brace himself for an outburst of surprise, perhaps of stormy indignation, and searching cross-examination, when the president presented himself at the door of his private office. "That will do," he said. "You can go, Mr. Carver." Carver stared at him in blank amazement. This was precisely what he did not expect. "Have you examined the bonds?" he asked. "Of course," answered the president. "And you find them all right?" continued the messenger, with irrepressible surprise. "I suppose so," answered the president. "I will examine more carefully presently." "Then you don't wish me to stay?" inquired Carver. "No; there is no occasion to do so." Ephraim Carver left the bank in a state of stupefaction. "What can it all mean?" he asked himself. "The man must be blind as a bat if he didn't discover that the package contained no bonds. I don't believe he opened it at all." So Carver was left in a state of uncertainty. On the whole he wished that the substitution had been discovered, so that the president could have had it out with him. Now he felt that a sword was impending over his head, which might fall at any time. This was unpleasant, for he did not know what to expect. He went back to Portland by a late train, however, as he had arranged to do. At the depot he met Colonel Johnson. He was puzzled to find that Johnson did not look as jubilant as he anticipated, now that their plot had succeeded. On the other hand, he looked grave and stern. "Well, colonel, how goes it?" he asked. "That is for you to say," returned Johnson. "You have seen Brandon and Travers, I suppose?" "Yes, I have seen them." "Then it's all right, and the parcel is in your hands." "He takes it pretty coolly," thought Johnson. "I can't understand what it means. I must get to the bottom of this thing. Well, how did they take it at the bank?" he added, aloud. "Did they make any fuss?" "No," answered the bank messenger. Johnson was surprised. "They didn't question you about the parcel you brought them?" "No; they told me it was all right, and let me go." "Then they must have got the bonds," said Johnson hastily. "What! haven't you got them?" asked the messenger, in genuine surprise. "No," said Johnson bitterly. "The fools brought me a package stuffed with sheets of brown paper." Carver stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. "I don't understand it," he said. "I can't account for any parcel of the kind." "They couldn't have made the exchange at all. This must have been their own parcel." "No," said Carver; "theirs was stuffed with old newspapers." "That was what they said." "They told the truth. I helped them make up the parcel myself." "Then it must have been their parcel that is now in the hands of the bank." "It seems likely." "Then where are the bonds?" demanded Johnson sternly. "That is more than I can tell," said the bank messenger, in evident perplexity. "It's enough to make a man tear his hair to have such a promising scheme miscarry," said Johnson gloomily. "I wish I could lay my finger on the man that's responsible for it." "I can't understand it at all, colonel. We followed out your instructions to the letter. Everything went off smoothly." "Can you tell me where are the bonds?" interrupted Johnson harshly. "No, I can't." "Then you may as well be silent." "I will follow your directions," said Carver submissively. "What do you wish me to do?" Johnson reflected a moment. Finally he said: "Take the earliest morning train to Chester. I will stay here. So will the other two men." "Anything further?" "Only this: Keep your eyes and ears open when you get home. If you hear anything that will throw light on this affair, write or telegraph, or send a special messenger, so that I may act promptly on your information. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir. Your directions shall be followed. I am as anxious as you are to find out why we failed." CHAPTER XXX. GRIT IS BETRAYED. In sending Grit to Boston instead of the regular messenger, President Graves had acted on his own responsibility, as he had a right to do, since it was a matter to be decided by the executive. He might, indeed, have consulted the directors, but that would have created delay, and might have endangered the needful secrecy. When, however, Grit returned and reported to him that his mission had been satisfactorily accomplished, he informed the directors of what had been done at a special meeting summoned at his own house. All approved the action except Mr. Courtney, who was prejudiced against Grit, and, moreover, felt offended because his own counsel had not been asked or regarded. "It seems to me," he said, with some heat, "that our president has acted in a very rash manner." "How do you make that out, Mr. Courtney?" interrogated that official. "It was actually foolhardy to trust a boy like Grit Morris with a package of such value." "Why?" inquired Graves. "Why? He is only a common boy, who makes a living by ferrying passengers across the river." "Does that prevent his being honest?" "A valuable package like that would be a powerful temptation to a boy like that," asserted Courtney. "The package was promptly delivered," said Mr. Graves dryly. "He says so," sneered Courtney. "Pardon me, Mr. Courtney, I have had advice to that effect from the Boston bank," said the president blandly. "Well, I'm glad the danger has been averted," said Courtney, rather discomfited. "All the same, I blame your course as hazardous and injudicious. I suppose the boy was afraid to appropriate property of so much value." "I think, Mr. Courtney, you do injustice to Grit," said Mr. Saunders, another director. "I am satisfied that he is strictly honest." "Perhaps you'd be in favor of appointing him regular bank messenger," said Courtney, with a sneer. "I should certainly prefer him to Ephraim Carver." "I consider Carver an honest man." "And I have positive proof that he is not honest," said the president. "I have proof, moreover, that he was actually in league with the man who plotted to rob the bank." This statement made a sensation, and the president proceeded: "Indeed, I have called this extra meeting partly to suggest the necessity of appointing in Carver's place a man in whom we can repose confidence." Here he detailed briefly the conversation which Grit overheard between the bank messenger and Colonel Johnson. It impressed all, except Mr. Courtney. "All a fabrication of that boy, I'll be bound," he declared. "I am surprised, Mr. Graves, that you should have been humbugged by such a palpable invention." "What could have been the boy's object in inventing such a story, allow me to ask, Mr. Courtney?" "Oh, he wanted to worm himself into our confidence," said Courtney. "Very likely he wished to be appointed bank messenger, though that would, of course, be preposterous." "Gentlemen," said President Graves, "as my course does not seem to command entire approval, I will ask those of you who think I acted with discretion to signify it." All voted in the affirmative except Mr. Courtney. "I regret, Mr. Courtney, that you disapprove my course," said the president; "but I continue to think it wise, and am glad that your fellow directors side with me." Soon after the meeting dissolved, and Mr. Courtney went home very much dissatisfied. Nothing was done about the appointment of a new messenger, the matter being postponed for three days. When Mr. Courtney went home he did a very unwise thing. He inveighed in the presence of his family against the course of President Graves, though it was a matter that should have been kept secret. He found one to sympathize with him--his son Phil. "You don't mean to say," exclaimed that young man, "that Grit Morris was sent to Boston in charge of thirty thousand dollars in bonds?" "Yes, I do. That is just what was done." "It's a wonder he didn't steal them and make himself scarce." "That is in substance what I said at the meeting of the directors, my son." "I wish they'd sent me," said Phil. "I should have enjoyed the trip." "It would certainly have been more appropriate," said Mr. Courtney, "as you are the son of one of the directors, and not the least influential or prominent, I flatter myself." "To take a common boatman!" said Phil scornfully. "Why, Mr. Graves must be crazy!" "He is certainly a very injudicious man," said his father. "Do you believe Carver to be dishonest, father?" "No, I don't, though Graves does, on some evidence trumped up by the boy Grit. He wants to supersede him, and it would not at all surprise me if he should be in favor of appointing Grit." "How ridiculous! What is the pay?" asked Phil. "Six hundred dollars a year, I believe," said Courtney. "Can't you get it for me?" asked Phil eagerly. "I don't think it would be suitable to appoint a boy," returned Courtney. "That is my objection to Grit." "Surely I would be a better messenger than a common boy like that." "Of course, you come of a very different family. Still, I prefer a man, and indeed I am in favor of retaining Ephraim Carver." Phil would really have liked the office of bank messenger. He was tired of studying, and would have found it very agreeable to have an income of his own. He got considerable sums from his father, but not sufficient for his needs, or, rather, his wishes. Besides, like most boys of his age, he enjoyed traveling about, and considered the office a light and pleasant one. "What a fool Graves must be," he said to himself, "to think of a common boatman for such a place! He'd better stick to his boat, it's all he's qualified for. I'd like to put a spoke in his wheel." He left the house, and a short distance up the street he met Ephraim Carver, who had come back to town in obedience to Colonel Johnson's suggestion, to learn what he could about the mysterious package. "I'll see what I can learn from him," thought Phil. "Good morning, Mr. Carver," he said. "Good morning, Philip." "You've been to Boston lately, haven't you?" "I wonder whether he has heard anything about the matter from his father," thought Carver. "Yes," he answered. "You didn't happen to meet Grit Morris there, did you?" asked Phil. "Grit Morris!" exclaimed Carver, in genuine surprise. "Yes, didn't you know he had been to Boston?" "No; what business had he in Boston?" asked the messenger. "None of his own," answered Phil significantly. "Did any one send him?" "You had better ask Mr. Graves," said Phil, telling more than he intended to. "Why didn't Mr. Graves get me to attend to his business?" asked Carver, still in the dark. "I didn't say Graves had any business of his own. He is president of the bank, you know." "But I attend to the bank business. I am the messenger." "Perhaps you don't attend to all of it," said Phil, telling considerably more than he intended when the conversation commenced. "Tell me what you know, Phil, about this matter. It is important for me to know," said Carver coaxingly. "I know you don't like Grit, neither do I. If he is trying to curry favor with Mr. Graves, I want to know it, so as to circumvent him." Before Phil quite knew what he was saying, he had revealed everything to Carver, adding that Grit was after his place. The bank messenger now understood why the package entrusted to him was a dummy, and who carried the real package. He lost no time in sending information to Colonel Johnson, in Portland. The gentleman was very much excited when he learned in what way he had been circumvented. "So it was a boy, was it?" he said savagely. "That boy must be looked after. He may find that he has made a mistake in meddling with affairs that don't concern him." CHAPTER XXXI. NEW PLANS. When Grit returned he found his mother naturally curious to know where he had been and on what errand. "I should like to tell you everything, mother," he said, "but it may not be prudent just yet." "It's nothing wrong, I hope, Grit?" "You may be sure of that, mother; I wouldn't engage in anything that I thought wrong. I feel justified in telling you confidentially that I was sent by Mr. Graves." "What! the president of the bank?" "Yes." "Then it's all right," said Mrs. Brandon, with an air of relief. "My time wasn't wasted, mother," said Grit cheerfully, as he displayed a ten-dollar note, new and crisp, which Mr. Graves had given him, besides paying the expenses of his trip. "I've only been gone two days, and ten dollars will pay me very well. It's better than boating, at any rate." "Yes, but it isn't a steady employment." "No; don't suppose I have any idea of giving up boating, because I have been paid five dollars a day for my trip. It's a help, though." "Did you see anything of Mr. Brandon while you were gone?" asked his mother apprehensively. "No, mother. I can't say I was disappointed, either." "When he went away he spoke mysteriously of some good fortune that was coming to him. He expected to earn a large sum of money, and talked of going to Europe." "He is welcome to do so," said Grit, smiling. "I hope he will, and then we can resume our old life. I tell you, mother, I feel more sure than ever of getting along. I am certain I can earn considerably more next year than I have ever done before," and the boy's cheeks glowed and his eyes sparkled with cheerful hope. "I am sure you deserve to, Grit, for you've always been a good son." "I ought to be, for I've got a good mother," said the boy, with a glance of affection at his mother. "He pays me for all," thought Mrs. Brandon, as she watched with pride and a mother's love the form of her boy as he walked down to the river. "As long as he lives, I have reason to be grateful to God. Mr. Brandon is a heavy cross to me, but I can bear it while I have Grit." Mr. Brandon, however, did not show himself. He was at Portland, subject to the orders of Colonel Johnson, who thought it not prudent that he or Travers should return just at present, lest, under the influence of liquor, they might become talkative and betray more than he desired. It was at this point that he learned from Ephraim Carver that Grit had been sent to Boston in the place of the regular bank messenger. "It looks as if somebody suspected something," he reflected anxiously. "Is it possible that any part of our plan has leaked out? And if so, how? Then why should a boy like that be selected for so responsible a duty? He must have had some agency in the discovery. Ha! I have it! He is the stepson of this Brandon. I must question Brandon." "Brandon," he said abruptly, summoning that worthy to his presence, "you have a son named Grit, have you not?" "Yes--curse the brat!" answered Brandon, in a tone by no means paternal. "What kind of a boy is he?" "Impudent and undutiful," said Brandon. "He doesn't treat me with any kind of respect." "I don't blame him for that," thought Johnson, surveying his instrument with a glance that did not indicate the highest esteem. "Did you tell him anything of our plans?" he asked searchingly. "Tell him! He's the last person I'd tell!" returned Brandon, with emphasis. "He didn't overhear you and Travers speaking of the matter, did he?" "Certainly not. What makes you ask me that, colonel?" "Because it was he who carried the genuine package of bonds to Boston--that's all." "Grit--carried--the bonds!" Brandon ejaculated, in amazement. "Yes." "How did you find out?" "Carver found out. I have just had a despatch from him." "Well, that beats me!" muttered Brandon. "I can't understand it at all." "It looks as if Carver were distrusted. I shall find out presently. In the meanwhile, I must see that boy of yours." "I'll go and bring him here," said Brandon. "Don't trouble yourself. I can manage the matter better by myself. I shall go to Boston this afternoon." "Are Travers and I to go, too?" "No; you can stay here. I'll direct you to a cheap boarding-house, where you can await my orders. I may take Travers with me." This arrangement did not suit Brandon very well, though it might had he been entrusted with a liberal sum of money. But Colonel Johnson, having lost the valuable prize for which he had striven, was in no mood to be generous. He agreed to be responsible for Brandon's board, but only gave him two dollars for outside expenses, thus enforcing a degree of temperance which was very disagreeable to Brandon. CHAPTER XXXII. GRIT RECEIVES A BUSINESS LETTER. Grit returned to his old business, but I am obliged to confess that he was not as well contented with it as he had been a week previous. The incidents of the past four days had broadened his views, and given him thoughts of a career which would suit him better. He earned a dollar and a quarter during the day, and this made a very good average. Multiply it by six, and it stood for an income of seven dollars and a half per week. This, to be sure, was not a large sum, but it was quite sufficient to maintain the little household in a degree of comfort which left nothing to be desired. "It's all very well now," thought Grit, "but it won't lead to anything. I'm so old now"--he was not quite sixteen--"that I ought to be getting hold of some business that I can follow when I am a man. I don't mean to be a boatman when I am twenty-five years old." There was something in this, no doubt. Still Grit need not have felt in such a hurry. He was young enough to wait. Waiting, however, is a very bad thing for boys of his age. I only want to show how his mind was affected, in order that the reader may understand how it happened that he fell unsuspiciously into a trap which Colonel Johnson prepared for him. After supper--it was two days later--Grit prepared to go to the village. He had a little errand of his own, and besides, his mother wanted a few articles at the grocery-store. Our hero, unlike some boys that I know, was always ready to do any errands for his mother, so that she was spared the trouble of exacting unwilling service. Grit had done all his business, when he chanced to meet his friend Jesse Burns, who, as I have already said, was the son of the postmaster. "How are you, Jesse?" said Grit. "All right, Grit. Have you got your letter?" "My letter!" returned Grit, in surprise. "Yes; there's a letter for you in the post-office." "I wonder who it can be from?" "Perhaps it's from your affectionate stepfather," suggested Jesse, smiling. "I hope not, I don't want to see or hear from him." "Well, you can easily solve the problem. You have only to take the letter out." "That's good advice, Jesse. I'll follow it." Grit called for his letter, and noticed, with some surprise, that it was addressed to him, not under his real name, but under that familiar name by which we know him. "Grit Morris," said Jesse, scanning the envelope. "Who can it be from?" The letter was postmarked Boston, and was addressed in a bold, business hand. Grit opened the envelope, read it through hastily, and with a look of evident pleasure. "What's it all about, Grit?" asked Jesse. "Read it for yourself, Jesse," said the young boatman, handing the letter to his friend. This was the letter: "DEAR SIR: I need a young person on whom I can rely to travel for me at the West. I don't know you personally, but you have been recommended to me as likely to suit my purpose. I am willing to pay twelve dollars per week and traveling expenses. If this will suit your views, come to Boston at once, and call upon me at my private residence, No. ----, Essex Street. "Yours truly, "SOLOMON WEAVER." "What are you going to do about it, Grit?" asked Jesse, when he had finished reading the letter. "I shall go to Boston to-morrow morning," answered Grit promptly. CHAPTER XXXIII. GRIT LEAVES PINE POINT. "It does seem to be a good offer," said Jesse thoughtfully. "I should think it was--twelve dollars a week and traveling expenses," said Grit enthusiastically. "I wonder how this Mr. Weaver came to hear of you?" "I can't think. That's what puzzles me," said Grit. "He says that you have been recommended to him, I see." "Yes. At any rate, I am very much obliged to the one who recommended me." "What will your mother say?" "She won't want to part with me; but when I tell her how good the offer is, she will get reconciled to it." When Grit went home and read the letter to his mother, it was a shock to the good woman. "How can I part from you, Grit?" she said, with a troubled look. "It won't be for long, mother," said Grit hopefully. "I shall soon be able to send for you, and we can settle down somewhere near Boston. I've got tired of this place, haven't you?" "No, Grit. I think Pine Point is very pleasant, as long as I can keep you with me. When you are gone, of course, it will seem very different. I don't see how I am going to stand it." "It won't be for long, mother; and you'll know I am doing well." "You can make a living with your boat, Grit." "Yes, mother; but it isn't going to lead to anything. It's all very well now, but half a dozen years from now I ought to be established in some good business." "Can't you put off going for a year, Grit?" "A year hence there may be no such chance as this, mother." "That is true." "You'll give your consent, then, mother?" "If you really think it is best, Grit--that is, if you've set your heart on it." "I have, mother," said Grit earnestly. "I was getting tired of boating before this letter came, but I kept at it because there didn't seem to be anything else. Now it would seem worse than ever, and I'm afraid I should be very discontented." "I wish you would call on your friend Mr. Jackson, at the hotel, and see what he thinks of it," said Mrs. Brandon. "He is an experienced man of business, and his judgment will be better than ours." "I will do as you say, mother. I am sure he will recommend me to go." Grit went to the hotel, arriving there about eight o'clock, and inquired for Mr. Jackson. He was told that that gentleman had started in the morning for Augusta, and would not return for a day or two. The young boatman was not, on the whole, sorry to hear this, for it was possible that the broker might not think favorably of the plan proposed, and he felt unwilling, even in that case, to give it up. He returned, and acquainted his mother with the result of his visit. "Can't you wait till Mr. Jackson returns?" asked his mother. "No, mother; I should run the risk of losing the chance." The evening was spent in getting ready to go. Grit left in his mother's hands all the money he had, except the ten dollars he had last received, and gave an order for the sixty dollars in the hands of Mr. Lawrence, the lawyer, so that even if this Western journey were prolonged for three months, his mother would have enough to provide for her wants. "Now, mother, I can leave home without any anxiety," he said. "You will write me often, Grit?" said Mrs. Brandon anxiously. "Oh, yes, mother; there is no danger I shall forget that." "Your letters will be all I shall have to think of, you know, Grit." "I won't forget it, mother." Grit kissed his mother good-by, and bent his steps toward the railway station. On the way he met Ephraim Carver. "Where are you going, Grit?" asked the bank messenger. "I am going to Boston." "It seems to me you have a good deal of business in Boston." "I hope to have." "You ain't going to stay, are you?" "I expect to stay. I've got an offer from a party there." "Of what sort?" "That letter will tell you." Ephraim Carver looked over the letter, and he smiled to himself, for he recognized the handwriting of Colonel Johnson, though the letter was signed by another name. "You're walking into the lion's den, young man," he thought; but he only said: "It seems to be a good offer. Why, you will be paid as much as I get. How old are you?" "Almost sixteen." "Boys get on more rapidly now than they did when I was of your age. Why, I'm more'n twenty years older than you are, and I haven't got any higher than twelve dollars a week yet." Mr. Carver laughed in what seemed to be an entirely uncalled-for manner. "I don't believe you'll keep your place long," thought the young boatman; but he, too, was not disposed to tell all he knew. So the two parted, each possessed of a secret in regard to the other. Mr. Carver, however, was destined to receive the first disagreeable surprise. After parting from Grit he met Mr. Graves in the street. "Good morning, Mr. Graves," he said, in his usual deferential manner, for he was a worldly-wise man, though he had committed one fatal mistake. "Good morning, Mr. Carver," said the president of the bank gravely. "Shall you have any errand for me this week?" "I have something to say to you, Mr. Carver," said Mr. Graves, "and I may as well take the present opportunity to do so. We have concluded to dispense with your services, and you are at liberty to look elsewhere for employment." "You are going to dispense with my services!" repeated Carver, in dismay. "Such is the determination of the directors, Mr. Carver." "But, sir, that is very hard on me. How am I to get along?" "I hope you may find something else to do. We shall pay you a month's salary in advance, to give you an opportunity of looking about." "But, Mr. Graves, why am I treated so harshly? Can't you intercede for me? I am a poor man." "I feel for your situation, Mr. Carver, but I am compelled to say that I do not feel disposed to intercede for you." "Haven't I always served the bank faithfully?" "I advise you to ask yourself that question, Mr. Carver," said the president significantly. "You can answer it to your own conscience better than I or any one else can do for you." "What does he mean?" thought Carver, startled. Then it occurred to the messenger that nothing had been discovered, but that Mr. Graves, who had recently shown such partiality to Grit, wished to create a vacancy for him. "Are you going to put Grit Morris in my place?" he asked angrily. "What makes you think so?" asked Mr. Graves keenly. "I knew you were partial to him," answered Carver, who reflected that it would not do to give the source of his information. "I will at any rate answer your question, Mr. Carver. There is no intention of putting Grit in your place. We have every confidence in his fidelity and capacity, but consider him too young for the position." "I was only going to say that Grit has another chance in Boston, so that there will be no need to provide for him." "Grit has a chance in Boston!" said Mr. Graves, in surprise. "Yes; he has just started for the city." "What sort of a chance is it?" "He has received an offer to travel at the West, with a salary of twelve dollars a week and expenses." "That is strange." "It is true. He showed me the letter." "From whom did it come?" "I don't remember." Carver did remember, but for obvious reasons did not think it best to acquaint Mr. Graves. "That is remarkable," thought Mr. Graves, as he walked home. "Grit is a smart boy, but such offers are not often made by strangers to a boy of fifteen. I must speak to Clark about it." He found Mr. Clark at his house. He was the quiet man who had been employed by the bank as a detective, and who had come to report to the president. There was a look of intelligence as he listened to the news about Grit. "I tell you what I think of it," he said. "The rascals have found out the part which Grit took in circumventing them, and this letter is part of a plot. They mean the boy mischief." "I hope not," said Mr. Graves anxiously. "I am attached to Grit, and I wouldn't have harm come to him for a good deal." "Leave the matter in my hands. I will take the next train for Boston, and follow this clue. It may enable me to get hold of this Johnson, who is a dangerous rascal, because he has brains." "Do so, and I will see you paid, if necessary, out of my own pocket." CHAPTER XXXIV. GRIT REACHES BOSTON. Full of hope and joyful anticipation, Grit left home and pursued his journey to Boston. He had occasion to stop a couple of hours at Portland, and improved it by strolling down to the pier of the little steamers that make periodical trips to the islands in the harbor. Just outside a low saloon he unexpectedly ran across his stepfather. "How are you, Grit?" said Brandon affably. There was a flush on Brandon's face, and an unsteadiness of gait which indicated that he had succeeded in evading what is known as the Maine law. To Grit it was not a welcome apparition. Still, he felt it due to himself to be ordinarily polite. "I am well," he answered briefly. "And how's your mother?" asked Brandon. "Quite well, thank you," Grit answered, as formally as if the question had been asked by a stranger. "Does she miss me much?" asked his stepfather, with a smile. "She has not mentioned it," responded our hero coldly. "I am sorry that circumstances compel me to be absent from her for a time," continued Brandon. "Oh, don't disturb yourself," said Grit. "She is quite used to being alone. I think she mentioned that you talked of going to Europe." Brandon frowned, and his bitter disappointment was thus recalled to his mind. "I don't know whether I shall or not," he answered. "It depends upon whether my--speculation turns out well. Where are you going?" Grit hesitated as to whether he should answer correctly. He was not anxious to have Brandon looking him up in Boston, but it occurred to him that he should be traveling at the West, and, therefore, he answered: "I have heard of a chance in Boston, and am going to see about it." "All right, Grit!" said Brandon. "You have my consent." It occurred to Grit that he did not stand in need of his stepfather's approval, but he did not say so. "Yes, Grit, I send you forth with a father's blessing," said Brandon paternally. "By the way, have you a quarter about you?" Grit thought that a quarter was rather a high price to pay for Brandon's blessing, but he was in good spirits, and this made him good-natured. Accordingly, he drew a quarter from his pocket and handed it to his stepfather. "Thank you, Grit," said Brandon briskly, for he had felt uncertain as to the success of his application. "I like to see you respectful and dutiful. I will drink your good health, and success to your plans." "You had better drink it in cold water, Mr. Brandon." "That's all right," said Brandon. "Good-by!" He disappeared in the direction of the nearest saloon, and Grit returned to the depot to take the train for Boston. "I don't know that I ought to have given him any money," thought Grit, "but I was so glad to get rid of him that I couldn't refuse." He reached Boston without further adventure, arriving at the Boston and Maine depot in Haymarket Square about four o'clock. "I wonder whether it is too late to call on Mr. Weaver to-night," thought Grit. He decided that it was not. Even if it were too late for an interview, he thought it would be wise to let his prospective employer understand that he had met his appointment punctually. "Carriage, sir?" asked a hackman. Grit answered in the negative, feeling that to one in his circumstances it would be foolish extravagance to spend money for a carriage. But this was succeeded by the thought that time was valuable, and as he did not know where Essex Street was, it might consume so much to find out the place indicated in the letter that he might miss the opportunity of seeing Mr. Weaver. "How far is Essex Street from here?" he asked. "Three or four miles," promptly answered the hackman. "Is there any street-car line that goes there?" "Oh, bless you, no." Neither of these answers was correct, but Grit did not know this. "How much will you charge to take me to No. ---- Essex Street?" "Seein' it's you, I'll take you for a dollar and a quarter." Grit was about to accept this offer, when a quiet-looking man beside him said: "The regular fare is fifty cents." "Is it any of your business?" demanded the hackman angrily. "Do you want to take the bread out of a poor man's mouth?" "Yes, if the poor man undertakes to cheat a boy!" answered the quiet man keenly. "It's ridiculous expectin' to pay fifty cents for a ride of three or four miles," grumbled the hackman. "The distance isn't over a mile and a quarter, and you are not allowed to ask over fifty cents. My boy, I advise you to call another hack." "Jump in," said the hackman, fearful of losing his fare. "I think I will get in, too, as I am going to that part of the city," said the small man, in whom my readers will probably recognize the detective already referred to. "That'll be extra." "Of course," said the detective. "I understand that, and I understand how much extra," said the stranger significantly. As the man and boy rattled through the streets, they fell into a conversation, and Grit, feeling that he was with a friend, told his plan. "Humph!" said the detective. "May I see this letter?" "Certainly, sir." "Do you know who recommended you to Mr. Weaver?" asked Grit's new friend. "No, sir." "And can't guess?" "No, sir." "Doesn't it strike you as a little singular that such an offer should come from a stranger?" "Yes, sir; that did occur to me. Don't you think it genuine?" asked Grit anxiously. "I don't know. I could tell better if I should see this Mr. Weaver." "Won't you go in with me?" "No; it might seem odd, and the proposal may be genuine. I'll tell you what to do, my boy. That is, if you feel confidence in me." "I do, and shall be glad of your advice." "Come to the Parker House after your interview, and inquire for Benjamin Baker." "I will, sir, and thank you." When the hack drew up in front of No. ---- Essex Street, the stranger got out with Grit. "I am calling close by," he said, "and won't ride any farther. Here is the fare for both." "But, sir," said Grit, "it is not right that you should pay my fare for me." "It is all right," said Mr. Baker. "I have more money than you, probably, my young friend. Besides, meeting with you has saved me some trouble." This speech puzzled Grit, but he did not feel like asking any explanation. He glanced with some interest at the house where he was to meet Mr. Weaver. It was a three-story brick house, with a swell front, such as used to be very popular in Boston thirty or forty years since. It was very quiet in appearance, and there was nothing to distinguish it from its neighbors on either side. "Good afternoon, Mr. Baker," said Grit, as he ascended the steps to ring the bell. "Good afternoon. Remember to call upon me at the Parker House." "Thank you, sir." Benjamin Baker turned down a side street, and Grit rang the bell. It was opened by a tall, gaunt woman, with a cast in her eye. "What's wanted?" she asked abruptly. "I called to see Mr. Weaver--Mr. Solomon Weaver," said Grit. "Oh, yes," said the woman, with a curious smile. "Come in." The hall which Grit entered was dark and shabby in its general appearance. Our hero followed his guide to a rear room, the door of which was thrown open, revealing a small apartment, with a shabby collection of furniture. There was no carpet on the floor, but one or two rugs relieved the large expanse of floor. "Take a seat, and I'll call Mr. Weaver," said the woman. Somehow Grit's courage was dampened by the unpromising look of the house and its interior. He had pictured to himself Mr. Weaver as a pleasant, prosperous-looking man, who lived in good style, and was liberally disposed. He sat down in an armchair in the center of the room. He had but five minutes to wait. Then the door opened, and to Grit's amazement the man whom he had known as Colonel Johnson entered the room, and coolly locked the door after him. CHAPTER XXXV. CROSS-EXAMINED. Grit's face showed the astonishment he felt at the unexpected appearance of a man whom he knew to be the prime instigator of the attempt to rob the bank at Chester. Colonel Johnson smiled grimly as he saw the effect produced by his presence. "You didn't expect to see me?" he said. "No, sir," answered Grit. "I flatter myself you had done me the honor to call upon me," said Johnson, seating himself at a little distance from our hero. "I came to see Mr. Solomon Weaver, from whom I received a letter," explained Grit. "If this is your house I may have made a mistake in the number." "Not at all," answered Johnson. "Mr. Weaver is a friend of mine." "Does he live here?" "Oh, yes," said Johnson, smiling. "He wrote me that he wished to send me on a Western trip." "That's all right." "Then the letter was genuine," said Grit, hoping that things might turn out right after all. Could it be possible, he thought, that Colonel Johnson was the friend who had recommended him? It did not seem at all probable, but in his bewilderment he did not know what to think. "Can I see Mr. Weaver?" asked Grit, desirous of putting an end to his uncertainty. "Presently," answered Colonel Johnson. "He is busy just at present, but he deputed me to speak with you." This was all very surprising, but would probably soon be explained. "I shall be glad to answer any questions," said Grit. "I suppose you can present good recommendations, as the position is a responsible one," said Johnson, with a half smile. "Yes, sir." "Whom, for instance?" "Mr. Graves, president of the Chester Bank," said Grit. Knowing what he did of Colonel Johnson's attempt upon the bank, it was perhaps a rather odd choice to make, but the young boatman thought it might help him to discover whether Johnson knew anything of his recent employment by the bank. "I have heard of Mr. Graves," said Johnson. "Has he ever employed you?" "Yes, sir." "In what capacity?" demanded Johnson searchingly. "He sent me to this city with a package." "What did the package contain?" "I think it contained bonds." "Haven't they a regular bank messenger?" "Yes, sir." "What's his name?" "Ephraim Carver." "Why was he not employed? Why should you be sent in his place?" "I think you had better ask Mr. Graves," said Grit independently. "Why? Don't you know?" "Even if I did I should consider that I had no right to tell." "You are a very conscientious and honorable young man," said Johnson sneeringly. "Thank you, sir," returned Grit, choosing not to show that he understood the sneer. "Where is your stepfather?" inquired Johnson, changing the subject abruptly. "In Portland." "How do you know?" "I met him in the street while on my way through the city." "Did you speak with him?" "Yes, sir." "What did he say?" asked Johnson suspiciously. "He wished to borrow twenty-five cents," answered Grit, with a smile. "Did you lend it to him?" "Yes." "Very dutiful, on my word!" "I have no feeling of that sort for Mr. Brandon," said Grit frankly. "I thought it the easiest way to get rid of him." Johnson changed the subject again. "Is Ephraim Carver likely to lose his situation as bank messenger?" he asked. "I think you had better ask Mr. Graves," said Grit, on his guard. Johnson frowned, for he did not like Grit's independence. "It is reported that you are intriguing for his position," he continued. "That is not true." "Do you think there is any likelihood of your being appointed in his place?" "No, sir; I never dreamed of it." "Yet there is a possibility of it. Don't suppose that I am particularly interested in this Carver. So far as I am concerned, I should not object to your succeeding him." "What does all this mean?" thought Grit. "If you should do so, I might have a proposal to make to you that would be to your advantage." Knowing what he did, Grit very well understood what was meant. Johnson, no doubt, wished to hire him to betray the confidence reposed in him by the bank, and deliver up any valuable package entrusted to him for a money consideration. Like any right-minded and honorable boy, Grit felt that the very hint of such a thing was an insult to him, and his face flushed with indignation. For the moment he forgot his prudence. "I don't think there is the least chance of my getting such a position," he said; "but even if I did, it would not do you any good to make me a proposal." "How do you know what sort of a proposal I should make?" demanded Johnson keenly. "I don't know," answered Grit, emphasizing the last word. "It appears to me, young man, that you are a little ahead of time," said Johnson. "You shouldn't crow too soon." "I think I will bid you good evening," said Grit, rising. "Why so soon? You haven't seen Mr. Weaver." "On the whole, I don't think I should wish to engage with him." Our hero felt that if Mr. Weaver were a friend of the man before him, it would be safest to have nothing to do with him. On the principle that a man is known by the company he keeps, the friend of Colonel Johnson could hardly be a desirable person to serve. "You seem to be in a hurry, especially as you have not seen my friend Weaver." "You will be kind enough to explain to him that I have changed my plans," said Grit. "Resume your seat for five minutes," said Johnson, "and I will call Weaver. You had better see him for yourself." "Very well, sir." He reflected that merely seeing Mr. Weaver would not commit him to anything. Colonel Johnson rose to his feet, and placed his foot firmly on a particular spot in the floor. To Grit's dismay, the floor seemed to sink beneath him, and chair and all were lowered a dozen feet into a subterranean cavity, too quickly for him to help himself. He realized that the chair so conveniently placed in the center of the apartment rested on a trap-door. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE BOY DANIEL. Though Grit was not hurt by his sudden descent into the dark cavity under the room in which he had been seated, he was, nevertheless, somewhat startled. Indeed, it was enough to startle a person much older. For the first time it dawned upon him that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and Mr. Weaver was either an imaginary person, or his offer was not genuine. It was clear, also, from the tenor of Johnson's questions that he fully understood, or at least suspected, that his plan had been known in advance to the bank officials. The young boatman understood how to manage a boat, but in the present case he found that he was out of his element. The tricks, traps, and devices of a great city he knew very little about. He had, indeed, read about trap-doors and subterranean chambers in certain sensational stories which had come into his possession, but he looked upon them as mere figments of the imagination, and did not believe they really existed. Now, here was he himself made an unexpected victim by a conspiracy of the same class familiar to him in novels. Naturally, the first thing to do was to take a survey of his new quarters, and obtain some idea of his position. At first everything seemed involved in thick darkness, but as his eye became accustomed to it, he could see that he was in a cellar of about the same size as the room above, though there was a door leading into another. He felt his way to it, and tried to open it, but found that it was fastened, probably by a bolt on the other side. There was no other door. "I am like a rat in a trap," thought Grit. "What are they going to do with me, I wonder?" While it was unpleasant enough to be where he was, he did not allow himself to despond or give way to unmanly fears. There was no reason, he thought, to apprehend serious peril or physical violence. Colonel Johnson probably intended to frighten him, with a view of securing his compliance with the demands of the conspirators. "He will find he has made a mistake," thought Grit. "I am not a baby, and don't mean to act like one." He heard a noise, and, looking round, discovered the armchair in which he had descended being drawn up toward the trap-door. The door was opened by some agency, the chair disappeared, and again he was in darkness. "They don't mean to keep me here in luxury," thought Grit. "If I sit down anywhere, it will have to be on the floor." It was late in the afternoon, as we know, and it seemed likely that our hero would have to remain in the subterranean chamber all night. As there was no bed, he would have to lie down on the ground. Grit kneeled down, and ascertained that the floor was cemented, and not a damp earthen flooring as he had feared. He congratulated himself, for he was bound to make the best of the situation. There was another source of discomfort, however. It was already past Grit's ordinary supper hour, and, except a very slight lunch, consisting of a sandwich bought in the cars, our hero had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and an early breakfast at that. Now, Grit was not one of those delicate boys who are satisfied with a few mouthfuls, but he had what is called a "healthy appetite," such as belongs to most boys who have good stomachs and spend considerable time in the open air. He began to feel an aching void in the region of his stomach, and thought, with a sigh, of the plain but hearty supper he should have had at home. "I hope Colonel Johnson isn't going to starve me," he thought. "That is carrying the joke too far. It seems to me I never felt so hungry in all my life before." Half an hour passed, and poor Grit's reflections became decidedly gloomy as his stomach became more and more troublesome. However, he was perfectly helpless, and must wait till the man, or men, who had him in their clutches, saw fit to provide for him. Under these circumstances it may well be imagined that his heart leaped for joy when he heard the bolt of the only door, already referred to, slowly withdrawn with a rasping sound, as if it did not slide easily in its socket. He turned his eyes eagerly toward the door. It was opened, and a tall, overgrown youth entered with a small basket in his hand, which he set down on the floor while he carefully closed the door. "Hello, there! Where are you?" he asked, for his eyes were not used to the darkness. "Here I am," answered Grit. "I hope you've brought me some supper." "Right you are!" said the youth. "Oh, now I see you." The speaker was tall and overgrown, as I have said. He was also painfully thin, and his clothes were two or three sizes too small for him, so that his long, bony arms protruded from his coat-sleeves, and his legs appeared to have outgrown his pants. His face was long, and his cheeky were hollow. "He reminds me of Smike, in 'Nicholas Nickleby,'" thought Grit. "Take your supper, young one, and eat it quick," said the youth, for he was not more than eighteen. Grit needed no second invitation. He quickly explored the contents of the basket. The supper consisted of cold meat and slices of bread and butter, with a mug of tea. To Grit everything tasted delicious, and he did not leave a crumb. "My! haven't you got an appetite?" said the youth. "I haven't had anything to eat since morning," said Grit apologetically--"that is, only a sandwich." "Say, what are you here for?" asked the youth curiously. "I don't know," answered Grit. "Honor bright?" "Yes, honor bright. Do you live here?" "Yes," answered the youth soberly. "Is this man--Colonel Johnson--any relation of yours?" "No." "Where are your folks?" "Haven't got any. Never had any as I know of." "Have you always lived here?" "Always lived with him," answered the boy, jerking his thumb in an upward direction. "Sometimes here, sometimes in New York." "Do you like to be with--him?" "No." "Why don't you run away?" "Run away!" repeated the other, looking around him nervously. "He'd get me back, and half kill me." "There's some mystery about this boy," thought Grit. "Do you think he will keep me here long?" he asked, in some anxiety. "Can't say--maybe." "What's your name?" "Daniel." "What's your other name?" "Haven't got any." "Daniel," said Grit, a thought striking him. "Do you ever go out--about the city, I mean?" "Oh, yes; I go to the post-office and other places." "Will you carry a message for me to the Parker House?" "I darsn't," said Daniel, trembling. "No one will know it," pleaded Grit. "Besides, I'll give you--five dollars," he added, after a pause. "Have you got so much?" asked Daniel eagerly. "Yes." "Show it to me." Grit did so. "Yes, I'll do it," said the youth, after a pause; "but I must be careful so he won't know." "All right. When can you leave the house?" "In the morning." "That will suit me very well. Now, shall I see you again to-morrow morning?" "Yes, I shall bring you your breakfast." "Very well; I will write a note, and will describe the gentleman you are to hand it to." "You'll be sure to give me the money?" "Yes, I will give it to you before you go, if you will promise to do my errand faithfully." "I'll promise. I never had five dollars," continued Daniel. "There's many things I can buy for five dollars." "So you can," answered Grit, who began to perceive that this overgrown youth was rather deficient mentally. "You mustn't tell anybody that you are going to carry a message for me," said Grit, thinking the caution might be necessary. "Oh, no, I darsn't," said Daniel quickly, and Grit was satisfied. Our hero felt much more comfortable after he was left alone, partly in consequence of the plain supper he had eaten, partly because he thought he saw his way out of the trap into which he had been inveigled. "To-morrow I hope to be free," he said to himself, as he lay down on the floor and sought the refreshment of sleep. Fortunately for him, he was feeling pretty well fatigued, and though it was but eight o'clock, he soon lost consciousness of all that was disagreeable in his situation under the benignant influence of sleep. When Grit awoke, he had no idea what time it was, for there was no way for light to enter the dark chamber. "I hope it is almost breakfast-time," thought our hero, for he already felt the stirrings of appetite, and besides, all his hope centered in Daniel, whom he was then to see. After awhile he heard the welcome sound of the bolt drawn back. Then a sudden fear assailed him. It might be some one else, not Daniel, who would bring his breakfast. If so, all his hopes would be dashed to the ground, and he could fix no limit to his captivity. But his fears were dissipated when he saw the long, lank youth, with the same basket which he had brought the night before. "Good morning, Daniel," said Grit joyfully. "I am glad to see you." "You're hungry, I reckon," said the youth practically. "Yes; but I wanted to see you, so as to give you my message. Are you going out this morning?" "Yes; I'm goin' to market." "Can you go to the Parker House? You know where it is, don't you?" "Yes; it is on School Street." Grit was glad that Daniel knew, for he could not have told him. Grit had written a note in pencil on a sheet of paper which he fortunately had in his pocket. This he handed to Daniel, with full instructions as to the outward appearance of Mr. Benjamin Baker, to whom it was to be handed. "Now give me the money," said Daniel. "Here it is. Mind, Daniel, I expect you to serve me faithfully." "All right!" said, the lank youth, as he disappeared through the door, once more leaving Grit alone. CHAPTER XXXVII. DANIEL CALLS AT THE PARKER HOUSE. It was half-past nine o'clock in the forenoon, and Mr. Benjamin Baker, detective, sat smoking a cigar in the famous hotel on School Street, known as "Parker's." "I hope nothing has happened to the boy," he said to himself, uneasily, as he drew out his watch. "It is time he was here. Have I done rightly in leaving him in the clutches of a company of unprincipled men? Yet I don't know what else I could do. If I had accompanied him to the door, my appearance would have awakened suspicion. If through his means I can get authentic information as to the interior of this house, which I strongly suspect to be the headquarters of the gang, I shall have done a good thing. Yet perhaps I did wrong in not giving the boy a word of warning." Mr. Baker took the cigar from his mouth and strolled into the opposite room, where several of the hotel guests were either reading the morning papers or writing letters. He glanced quickly about him, but saw no one that resembled Grit. "Not here yet?" he said to himself, "perhaps he can't find the hotel. But he looks too smart to have any difficulty about that. Ha! whom have we here?" This question was elicited by a singular figure upon the sidewalk. It was a tall, overgrown boy, whose well-worn suit appeared to have been first put on when he was several years younger, and several inches shorter. The boy was standing still, with mouth and eyes wide open, staring in a bewildered way at the entrance of the hotel, as if he had some business therein, but did not know how to go about it. "That's an odd-looking boy," he thought. "Looks like one of Dickens' characters." Finally the boy, in an uncertain, puzzled way, ascended the steps into the main vestibule, and again began to stare helplessly in different directions. One of the employees of the hotel went up to him. "What do you want?" he demanded, rather roughly. "Be you Mr. Baker?" asked the boy. "No; I am not Mr. Baker." "Where is Mr. Baker?" "I don't know anything about Mr. Baker," answered the attendant impatiently. "The boy told me I would find him here," said Daniel, for of course my reader recognizes him. "Then the boy was playing a trick on you, most likely." By this time Mr. Baker thought it advisable to make himself known. "I am Mr. Benjamin Baker," he said, advancing. "Do you want to see me?" Daniel looked very much relieved. "I've got a note for you," he said. "Give it to me." Daniel did so, and was about to go out. "Wait a minute, my young friend, there may be an answer," said the detective. Mr. Baker read rapidly the following note: "I am in trouble. I think the letter I received was only meant to entrap me. I have not seen Mr. Weaver, but I have had an interview with Colonel Johnson, who planned the robbery of the bank at Chester. He seems to know that I had something to do with defeating his plans, and has sounded me as to whether I will help him in case I act again as bank messenger. On my refusing, he touched a spring, and let me down through a trap-door in the floor of the rear room to a cellar beneath, where I am kept in darkness. The boy who gives you this brings me my meals. He doesn't seem very bright, but I have agreed to pay him well if he will hand you this, and I hope he will succeed. I don't know what Colonel Johnson proposes to do with me, but I hope you will be able to help me. GRIT." Benjamin Baker nodded to himself while he was reading this note. "This confirms my suspicions," he said to himself. "If I am lucky I shall succeed in trapping the trappers. Hark you, my boy, when are you going back?" "As soon as I have been to the market." "Very well; what did the boy agree to give you for bringing this note?" "Five dollars," answered Daniel, his dull face lighting up, for he knew the power of money. "Would you like five dollars more?" "Wouldn't I?" was the eager response. "Then don't say a word to anybody about bringing this note." "No, I won't. He'd strap me if I did." "Shall you see the boy?" "Yes, at twelve o'clock, when I carry his dinner." "When you see him, tell him you've seen me, and it's all right. Do you understand?" Daniel nodded. "I may call up there some time this morning. If I do I want you to open the door and let me in." Daniel nodded again. "That will do. You can go." Mr. Baker left the hotel with a preoccupied air. CHAPTER XXXVIII. GRIT MAKES A DISCOVERY. Grit, left to himself, was subjected to the hardest trial, that of waiting for deliverance, and not knowing whether the expected help would come. "At any rate I have done the best I could," he said to himself. "Daniel is the best messenger I could obtain. He doesn't seem to be more than half-witted, but he ought to be intelligent enough to find Mr. Baker and deliver my note." The subterranean apartment, with its utter destitution of furniture, furnished absolutely no resources against ennui. Grit was fond of reading, and in spite of his anxiety might in an interesting paper or book have forgotten his captivity, but there was nothing to read, and even if there had been, it was too dark to avail himself of it. "I suppose I sha'n't see Daniel till noon," he reflected. "Till then I am left in suspense." He sat down in a corner and began to think over his position and future prospects. He was not wholly cast down, for he refused to believe that he was in any real peril. In fact, though a captive, he had never felt more hopeful, or more self-reliant than now. But he was an active boy, and accustomed to exercise, and he grew tired of sitting down. "I will walk a little," he decided, and proceeded to pace up and down his limited apartment. Then it occurred to him to ascertain the dimensions of the room, by pacing. As he did so, he ran his hand along the side wall. A most remarkable thing occurred. A door flew open, which had appeared like the rest of the wall, and a narrow passageway was revealed, leading Grit could not tell where. "I must have touched some spring," he thought. "This house is a regular trap. I wonder where this passageway leads?" Grit stooped down, for the passage was but about four feet in height, and tried to peer through the darkness. But he could see nothing. "Shall I explore it?" he thought. He hesitated a moment, not knowing whether it would be prudent, but finally curiosity overruled prudence, and he decided to do so. Stooping over, he felt his way for possibly fifty feet, when he came to a solid wall. Here seemed to be the end of the passage. He began to feel slowly with his hand, when another small door, only about twelve inches square, flew open, and he looked through it into another subterranean apartment. It did not appear to be occupied, but on a small wooden table was a candle, and by the light of the candle Grit could see a variety of articles, including several trunks, one open, revealing its contents to be plate. "What does it mean?" thought Grit. Then the thought came to him, for, though he was a country boy, his wits had been sharpened by his recent experiences. "It must be a storehouse of stolen goods." This supposition seemed in harmony with the character of the man who had lured him here, and now held him captive. "If I were only outside," thought Grit, "I would tell Mr. Baker of this. The police ought to know it." Just then he heard his name called, and, turning suddenly, distinguished by the faint light which the candle threw into the passage the stern and menacing countenance of Colonel Johnson. "Come out here, boy!" he called, in an angry tone. "I have an account to settle with you." CHAPTER XXXIX. AN UNPLEASANT INTERVIEW. There was nothing to do but to obey. Judging by his own interpretation of the discovery our hero was not surprised that his captor should be incensed. He retraced his steps, and found himself once more in the subterranean chamber facing an angry man. "What took you in there?" demanded Colonel Johnson. "Curiosity, I suppose," answered Grit composedly. He felt that he was in a scrape, but he was not a boy to show fear or confusion. "How did you happen to discover the entrance?" "It was quite accidental. I was pacing the floor to see how wide the room was, when my hand touched the spring." "Why did you want to know the width of the room?" asked Johnson suspiciously. "I didn't care much to know, but the time hung heavily on my hands, and that was one way of filling it up." Colonel Johnson eyed the boy attentively. He was at a loss to know whether Grit really suspected the nature and meaning of his discovery, or not. If not, he didn't wish to excite suspicion in the boy's mind. He decided to insinuate an explanation. "I suppose you were surprised to find the passageway," he remarked. "Yes, sir." "As you have always lived in the country, that is natural. Such arrangements are common enough in the city." "I wonder whether trap doors are common," thought Grit, but he did not give expression to his thought. "The room into which you looked is under the house of my brother-in-law, and the passage affords an easy mode of entrance." "I should think it would be easier going into the street," thought Grit. "Still I am annoyed at your meddlesome curiosity, and shall take measures to prevent your gratifying it again. I had a great mind when I first saw you to shut you up in the passage. I fancy you wouldn't enjoy that." "I certainly shouldn't," said Grit, smiling. "I will have some consideration for you, and put a stop to your wanderings in another way." As he spoke he drew from his pocket a thick, stout cord, and directing Grit to hold his hands together, proceeded to tie his wrists. This our hero naturally regarded as distasteful. "You need not do this," he said. "I will promise not to go into the passage." "Humph! Will you promise not to attempt to escape?" "No, sir, I can't promise that." "Ha! you mean, then, to attempt to escape?" "Of course!" answered Grit. "I should be a fool to stay here if any chance offered of getting away." "You are candid, young man," returned Johnson. "There is no earthly chance of your escaping. Still, I may as well make sure. Put out your feet." "You are not going to tie my feet, too, are you?" asked Grit, in some dismay. "To be sure I am. I can't trust you after what you have done this morning." It was of no use to resist, for Colonel Johnson was a powerful man, and Grit, though strong, only a boy of sixteen. "This doesn't look much like escaping," thought Grit. "I hope he won't search my pockets and discover my knife. If I can get hold of that, I may be able to release myself." Colonel Johnson had just completed tying the last knot when the door, which had been left unbolted, was seen to open, and the half-witted boy, Daniel, entered hastily. "How now, idiot!" said Johnson harshly. "What brings you here?" "There's a gentleman up-stairs wants to see you, master," said Daniel, with the scared look with which he always regarded his tyrant. "A gentleman!" repeated Johnson hastily. "Who let him in?" "I did, sir." "You did!" thundered Johnson. "How often have I told you to let in nobody? Do you want me to choke you?" "I--forgot," faltered the boy. "Besides, he said he wanted to see you particular." "All the more reason why I don't want to see him. What does he look like?" "He's a small man, sir." "Humph! Where did you leave him?" "Room above, sir." "I'll go up and see him. If it's somebody I don't want to see, I'll choke you." "Yes, sir," said Daniel humbly. As Johnson went out, Daniel lingered a moment, and, in a hoarse whisper, said to Grit: "It's him." "Who is it?" asked Grit puzzled. "It's the man you sent me to." "Good! You're a trump, Daniel," said Grit joyfully. A minute after a confused noise was heard in the room above. Daniel turned pale. "Tell him where I am, Daniel," said Grit, as the boy timidly left the room. CHAPTER XL. COLONEL JOHNSON COMES TO GRIEF. We must now follow Johnson up-stairs. In the room above, sitting down tranquilly in an arm-chair, but not in that in the center of the room, was a small, wiry man of unpretending exterior. "What is your business here, sir?" demanded Johnson rudely. "Are you the owner of this house?" asked Benjamin Baker coolly. "Yes. That does not explain your presence here, however." "I am in search of a quiet home, and it struck me that this was about the sort of a house I would like," answered Baker. "Then, sir, you have wasted your time in coming here. This house is not for sale." "Indeed! Perhaps I may offer you enough to make it worth your while to sell it to me." "Quite impossible, sir. This is my house, and I don't want to sell." "I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me over the house to let me see its arrangements, as I may wish to copy them if I build." "It strikes me, sir, you are very curious, whoever you are," said Johnson angrily. "You intrude yourself into the house of a quiet citizen, and wish to pry into his private arrangements." "I really beg your pardon, Mr. ---- I really forget your name." "Because you never heard it. The name is of no consequence." "I was about to say, if you have anything to conceal, I won't press my request." "Who told you I had anything to conceal?" said Johnson suspiciously. "I inferred it from your evident reluctance to let me go over your house." "Then, sir, I have only to say that you are mistaken. Because I resent your impertinent intrusion, you jump to the conclusion that I have something to conceal." "Just so. There might, for example, be a trap-door in this very room----" Colonel Johnson sprang to his feet and advanced toward his unwelcome guest. "Tell me what you mean," he said savagely. "I am not the man to be bearded in my own house. You will yet repent your temerity in thrusting yourself here." Benjamin Baker also rose to his feet, and, putting a whistle to his mouth, whistled shrilly. Instantly two stalwart policemen sprang into the apartment from the hall outside. "Seize that man!" said the detective. "What does this mean?" asked Johnson, struggling, but ineffectually. "It means, Colonel Johnson, alias Robert Kidd, that you are arrested on a charge of being implicated in the attempt to steal a parcel of bonds belonging to the National Bank of Chester, Maine." "I don't know anything about it," said Johnson sullenly. "You've got the wrong man." "Possibly. If so, you'll be released, especially as there are other charges against you. Guard him, men, while I search the house." "Here, boy, show me where my young friend is concealed," said Baker to Daniel, who was timidly peeping in at the door. A minute later and Baker cut the cords that confined the hands and feet of Grit. "Now," said he quickly, "have you discovered anything that will be of service to me?" Grit opened for him the dark passage. The detective walked to the end, and saw the room into which it opened. "Do you know, Grit," he said, on his return, "you have done a splendid day's work? With your help I have discovered the headquarters of a bold and desperate gang of thieves, which has long baffled the efforts of the Boston police. There is a standing reward of two thousand dollars for their discovery, to which you will be entitled." "No, sir; it belongs to you," said Grit modestly. "I could have done nothing without you." "Nor I without your information. But we can discuss this hereafter." Johnson ground his teeth when Grit was brought upstairs, free, to see him handcuffed and helpless. "I believe you are at the bottom of this, you young rascal!" he said. "You are right," said the detective. "We have received very valuable information from this boy, whom you supposed to be in your power." "I wish I had killed him!" said Johnson furiously. "Fortunately, you were saved that crime, and need expect nothing worse than a long term of imprisonment. Officers, take him along." CHAPTER XLI. CONCLUSION. The Boston and Portland papers of the next morning contained full accounts of the discovery of the rendezvous of a gang of robbers whose operations had been extensive in and near Boston, together with the arrest of their chief. In the account full credit was given to our young hero, Grit, for his agency in the affair, and it was announced that the prize offered would be divided between Grit and the famous detective, Benjamin Baker. It may readily be supposed that this account created great excitement in Chester. Most of the villagers were heartily pleased by the good fortune and sudden renown of the young boatman; but there was at least one household to which the news brought no satisfaction. This was the home of Phil Courtney. "What a fuss the papers make about that boy!" exclaimed Phil, in disgust. "I suppose he will put on no end of airs when he gets home." "Very likely," said Mr. Courtney. "He seems to have had good luck, that's all." "It's pretty good luck to get a thousand dollars," said Phil enviously. "Papa, will you do me a favor?" "What is it?" "Can't you put a thousand dollars in the bank for me, so that the boatman can't crow over me?" "Money is very scarce with me just now, Philip," said his father. "It will do just as well to tell him you have a thousand dollars in my hands." "I would rather have it in a bank," said Philip. "Then you'll have to wait till it is convenient for me," said his father shortly. It was true that money was scarce with Mr. Courtney. I have already stated that he had been speculating in Wall Street heavily, and with by no means unvarying success. In fact, the same evening he received a letter from his brother, stating that the market was so heavily against him that he must at once forward five thousand dollars to protect his margin, or the stocks carried on his account must be sold. As Mr. Courtney was unable to meet this demand, the stocks were sold, involving a loss of ten thousand dollars. This, in addition to previous losses, so far crippled Mr. Courtney that he was compelled materially to change his way of living, and Phil had to come down in the social scale, much to his mortification. But the star of the young boatman was in the ascendant. On his return to Pine Point he found Mr. Jackson, the New York broker, about to leave the hotel for a return to the city. He congratulated Grit on his success as an amateur detective, and then asked: "What are your plans, Grit? Probably you won't care to remain a boatman?" "No, sir; I have decided to give up that business, at any rate." "Have you anything in view?" "I thought I might get a situation of some kind in Boston. The prize-money will keep us going till I can earn a good salary." "Will your mother move from Pine Point?" "Yes, sir; she would be lonely here without me." "I have an amendment to offer to your plans, Grit." "What is that, sir?" "Come to New York instead of Boston." "I have no objection, sir, if there is any opening there for me." "There is, and in my office. Do you think you would like to enter my office?" "I should like it very much," said Grit eagerly. "Then I will engage you at a salary of twelve dollars per week--for the first year." "Twelve dollars!" exclaimed Grit, overwhelmed. "I had no idea a green hand could get such pay." "Nor can they," answered Mr. Jackson, smiling; "but you remember that there is an unsettled account between us. I have not forgotten that you saved the life of my boy." "I don't want any reward for that, sir." "I appreciate your delicacy, but I shall feel better satisfied to recognize it in my own way. I have another proposal to make to you. It is this: Place in my hands as much of your thousand dollars as you can spare, and I will invest it carefully for your advantage in stock operations, and hope materially to increase it." "I shall be delighted if you will do so, Mr. Jackson, and think myself very fortunate that you take this trouble for me." "Now, how soon can you go to New York?" "When you think best, sir?" "I advise you to go on with me, and select a home for your mother. Then you can come back for her, and settle yourself down to work." * * * * * * * * A year later, in a pleasant cottage on Staten Island, Grit and his mother sat in a neatly furnished sitting-room. Our young hero was taller, as befitted his increased age, but there was the same pleasant, frank expression which had characterized him as a boy. "Mother," said he, "I have some news for you." "What is it, Grit?" "Mr. Jackson has raised my pay to twenty dollars a week." "That is excellent news, Grit." "He has besides rendered an account of the eight hundred dollars he took from me to operate with. How much do you think it amounts to now?" "Perhaps a thousand." "Between four and five thousand!" answered Grit, in exultation. "How can that be possible?" exclaimed Mrs. Morris, in astonishment. "He used it as a margin to buy stocks which advanced greatly in a short time. This being repeated once or twice, has made me almost rich." "I can hardly believe it, Grit. It is too good to be true." "But it is true, mother. Now we can change our mode of living." "Wait till you are worth ten thousand dollars, Grit--then I will consent. But, I, too, have some news for you." "What is it?" "I had a letter from Chester to-day. Our old neighbor, Mr. Courtney, has lost everything--or almost everything--and has been compelled to accept the post of bank messenger, at a salary of fifty dollars per month." "That is indeed a change," said Grit. "What will Phil do?" "He has gone into a store in Chester, on a salary of three dollars a week." "Poor fellow!" said Grit. "I pity him. It must be hard for a boy with his high notions to come down in the world so. I would rather begin small and rise, than be reared in affluence only to sink into poverty afterward." It was quite true. The result of his rash speculations was to reduce Mr. Courtney to poverty, and make him for the balance of his life a soured, discontented man. As for Phil, he is still young, and adversity may teach him a valuable lesson. Still, I hardly think he will ever look with satisfaction upon the growing success and prosperity of the young boatman. I must note another change. It will be observed that I have referred to Grit's mother as Mrs. Morris. Mr. Brandon was accidentally drowned in Portland Harbor, having undertaken, while under the influence of liquor, to row to Peake's Island, some two miles distant. His wife and Grit were shocked by his sudden death, but they could hardly be expected to mourn for him. His widow resumed the name of her former husband, and could now lay aside all anxiety as to the quiet tenor of her life being broken in upon by her ill-chosen second husband. It looks as if Grit's prosperity had come to stay. I am privately informed that Mr. Jackson intends next year to make him junior partner, and this will give him a high position in business circles. I am sure my young readers will feel that his prosperity has been well earned, and will rejoice heartily in the brilliant success of the young boatman of Pine Point. THE END. 
38981	----	book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) The Chase of the Golden Plate [Illustration: "'You really do not love him, anyway,' he ventured"] The Chase of the Golden Plate By Jacques Futrelle With Illustrations by Will Grefé and Decorations by E. A. Poucher New York Dodd, Mead & Company 1906 COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY _Published, October, 1906_ To _Three Women I Love_: FAMA, and MAYZIE, and BERTA The Chase of the Golden Plate [Illustration] PART I THE BURGLAR AND THE GIRL CHAPTER I Cardinal Richelieu and the Mikado stepped out on a narrow balcony overlooking the entrance to Seven Oaks, lighted their cigarettes and stood idly watching the throng as it poured up the wide marble steps. Here was an over-corpulent Dowager Empress of China, there an Indian warrior in full paint and toggery, and mincing along behind him two giggling Geisha girls. Next, in splendid robes of rank, came the Czar of Russia. The Mikado smiled. "An old enemy of mine," he remarked to the Cardinal. A Watteau Shepherdess was assisted out of an automobile by Christopher Columbus and they came up the walk arm-in-arm, while a Pierrette ran beside them laughing up into their faces. D'Artagnan, Athos, Aramis, and Porthos swaggered along with insolent, clanking swords. "Ah!" exclaimed the Cardinal. "There are four gentlemen whom I know well." Mary Queen of Scots, Pocahontas, the Sultan of Turkey, and Mr. Micawber chatted amicably together in one language. Behind them came a figure which immediately arrested attention. It was a Burglar, with dark lantern in one hand and revolver in the other. A black mask was drawn down to his lips, a slouch hat shaded his eyes, and a kit of the tools of his profession swung from one shoulder. "By George!" commented the Cardinal. "Now, that's clever." "Looks like the real thing," the Mikado added. The Burglar stood aside a moment, allowing a diamond-burdened Queen Elizabeth to pass, then came on up the steps. The Cardinal and the Mikado passed through an open window into the reception-room to witness his arrival. [Illustration: "A figure which immediately arrested attention"] "Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth!" the graven-faced servant announced. The Burglar handed a card to the liveried Voice and noted, with obvious amusement, a fleeting expression of astonishment on the stolid face. Perhaps it was there because the card had been offered in that hand which held the revolver. The Voice glanced at the name on the card and took a deep breath of relief. "Bill, the Burglar!" he announced. There was a murmur of astonishment and interest in the reception-hall and the ballroom beyond. Thus it was that the Burglar found himself the centre of attention for a moment, while a ripple of laughter ran around. The entrance of a Clown, bounding in behind him, drew all eyes away, however, and the Burglar was absorbed in the crowd. It was only a few minutes later that Cardinal Richelieu and the Mikado, seeking diversion, isolated the Burglar and dragged him off to the smoking-room. There the Czar of Russia, who was on such terms of intimacy with the Mikado that he called him Mike, joined them, and they smoked together. "How did you ever come to hit on a costume like that?" asked the Cardinal of the Burglar. The Burglar laughed, disclosing two rows of strong, white teeth. A cleft in the square-cut, clean-shaven chin, visible below the mask, became more pronounced. A woman would have called it a dimple. "I wanted something different," he explained. "I couldn't imagine anything more extraordinary than a real burglar here ready to do business, so I came." "It's lucky the police didn't see you," remarked the Czar. Again the Burglar laughed. He was evidently a good-natured craftsman, despite his sinister garb. "That was my one fear--that I would be pinched before I arrived," he replied. "'Pinched,' I may explain, is a technical term in my profession meaning jugged, nabbed, collared, run in. It seemed that my fears had some foundation, too, for when I drove up in my auto and stepped out a couple of plain-clothes men stared at me pretty hard." He laid aside the dark lantern and revolver to light a fresh cigarette. The Mikado picked up the lantern and flashed the light on and off several times, while the Czar sighted the revolver at the floor. "Better not do that," suggested the Burglar casually. "It's loaded." "Loaded?" repeated the Czar. He laid down the revolver gingerly. "Surest thing, you know," and the Burglar laughed quizzically. "I'm the real thing, you see, so naturally my revolver is loaded. I think I ought to be able to make quite a good haul, as we say, before unmasking-time." "If you're as clever as your appearance would indicate," said the Cardinal admiringly, "I see no reason why it shouldn't be worth while. You might, for instance, make a collection of Elizabethan jewels. I have noticed four Elizabeths so far, and it's early yet." "Oh, I'll make it pay," the Burglar assured him lightly. "I'm pretty clever; practised a good deal, you know. Just to show you that I am an expert, here is a watch and pin I took from my friend, the Czar, five minutes ago." He extended a well-gloved hand in which lay the watch and diamond pin. The Czar stared at them a moment in frank astonishment; patted himself all over in sudden trepidation; then laughed sheepishly. The Mikado tilted his cigar up to a level with the slant eyes of his mask, and laughed. "In the language of diplomacy, Nick," he told the Czar, "you are what is known as 'easy.' I thought I had convinced you of that." "Gad, you are clever," remarked the Cardinal. "I might have used you along with D'Artagnan and the others." The Burglar laughed again and stood up lazily. "Come on, this is stupid," he suggested. "Let's go out and see what's doing." "Say, just between ourselves tell us who you are," urged the Czar. "Your voice seems familiar, but I can't place you." "Wait till unmasking-time," retorted the Burglar good-naturedly. "Then you'll know. Or if you think you could bribe that stone image who took my card at the door you might try. He'll remember me. I never saw a man so startled in all my life as he was when I appeared." The quartet sauntered out into the ballroom just as the signal for the grand march was given. A few minutes later the kaleidoscopic picture began to move. Stuyvesant Randolph, the host, as Sir Walter Raleigh, and his superb wife, as Cleopatra, looked upon the mass of colour, and gleaming shoulders, and jewels, and brilliant uniforms, and found it good--extremely good. Mr. Randolph smiled behind his mask at the striking incongruities on every hand: Queen Elizabeth and Mr. Micawber; Cardinal Richelieu and a Pierrette; a Clown dancing attendance on Marie Antoinette. The Czar of Russia paid deep and devoted attention to a light-footed Geisha girl, while the Mikado and Folly, a jingling thing in bells and abbreviated skirts, romped together. The grotesque figure of the march was the Burglar. His revolver was thrust carelessly into a pocket and the dark lantern hung at his belt. He was pouring a stream of pleasing nonsense into the august ear of Lady Macbeth, nimbly seeking at the same time to evade the pompous train of the Dowager Empress. The grand march came to an end and the chattering throng broke up into little groups. Cardinal Richelieu strolled along with a Pierrette on his arm. "Business good?" he inquired of the Burglar. "Expect it to be," was the reply. The Pierrette came and, standing on her tip-toes--silly, impractical sort of toes they were--made a _moue_ at the Burglar. "Oooh!" she exclaimed. "You are perfectly horrid." "Thank you," retorted the Burglar. He bowed gravely, and the Cardinal, with his companion, passed on. The Burglar stood gazing after them a moment, then glanced around the room, curiously, two or three times. He might have been looking for someone. Finally he wandered away aimlessly through the crowd. [Illustration] CHAPTER II Half an hour later the Burglar stood alone, thoughtfully watching the dancers as they whirled by. A light hand fell on his arm--he started a little--and in his ear sounded a voice soft with the tone of a caress. "Excellent, Dick, excellent!" The Burglar turned quickly to face a girl--a Girl of the Golden West, with deliciously rounded chin, slightly parted rose-red lips, and sparkling, eager eyes as blue as--as blue as--well, they were blue eyes. An envious mask hid cheeks and brow, but above a sombrero was perched arrogantly on crisp, ruddy-gold hair, flaunting a tricoloured ribbon. A revolver swung at her hip--the wrong hip--and a Bowie knife, singularly inoffensive in appearance, was thrust through her girdle. The Burglar looked curiously a moment, then smiled. [Illustration: "An envious mask hid cheeks and brow"] "How did you know me?" he asked. "By your chin," she replied. "You can never hide yourself behind a mask that doesn't cover that." The Burglar touched his chin with one gloved hand. "I forgot that," he remarked ruefully. "Hadn't you seen me?" "No." The Girl drew nearer and laid one hand lightly on his arm; her voice dropped mysteriously. "Is everything ready?" she asked. "Oh, yes," he assured her quickly. His voice, too, was lowered cautiously. "Did you come in the auto?" "Yes." "And the casket?" For an instant the Burglar hesitated. "The casket?" he repeated. "Certainly, the casket. Did you get it all right?" The Burglar looked at her with a new, businesslike expression on his lips. The Girl returned his steady gaze for an instant, then her eyes dropped. A faint colour glowed in her white chin. The Burglar suddenly laughed admiringly. "Yes, I got it," he said. She took a deep breath quickly, and her white hands fluttered a little. "We will have to go in a few minutes, won't we?" she asked uneasily. "I suppose so," he replied. "Certainly before unmasking-time," she said, "because--because I think there is someone here who knows, or suspects, that----" "Suspects what?" demanded the Burglar. "Sh-h-h-h!" warned the Girl, and she laid a finger on her lips. "Not so loud. Someone might hear. Here are some people coming now that I'm afraid of. They know me. Meet me in the conservatory in five minutes. I don't want them to see me talking to you." She moved away quickly and the Burglar looked after her with admiration and some impalpable quality other than that in his eyes. He was turning away toward the conservatory when he ran into the arms of an oversized man lumpily clad in the dress of a courtier. The lumpy individual stood back and sized him up. "Say, young fellow, that's a swell rig you got there," he remarked. The Burglar glanced at him in polite astonishment--perhaps it was the tone of the remark. "Glad you like it," he said coldly, and passed on. As he waited in the conservatory the amusement died out of his eyes and his lips were drawn into a straight, sharp line. He had seen the lumpy individual speak to another man, indicating generally the direction of the conservatory as he did so. After a moment the Girl returned in deep agitation. "We must go now--at once," she whispered hurriedly. "They suspect us. I know it, I know it!" "I'm afraid so," said the Burglar grimly. "That's why that detective spoke to me." "Detective?" gasped the Girl. "Yes, a detective disguised as a gentleman." "Oh, if they are watching us what shall we do?" The Burglar glanced out, and seeing the man to whom the lumpy individual had spoken coming toward the conservatory, turned suddenly to the Girl. "Do you really want to go with me?" he asked. "Certainly," she replied eagerly. "You are making no mistake?" "No, Dick, no!" she said again. "But if we are caught----" "Do as I say and we won't be caught," declared the Burglar. His tone now was sharp, commanding. "You go on alone toward the front door. Pass out as if to get a breath of fresh air. I'll follow in a minute. Watch for me. This detective is getting too curious for comfort. Outside we'll take the first auto and run for it." He thoughtfully whirled the barrel of his revolver in his fingers as he stared out into the ballroom. The Girl clung to him helplessly a moment; her hand trembled on his arm. "I'm frightened," she confessed. "Oh, Dick, if----" "Don't lose your nerve," he commanded. "If you do we'll both be caught. Go on now, and do as I say. I'll come--but I may come in a hurry. Watch for me." For just a moment more the Girl clung to his arm. "Oh, Dick, you darling!" she whispered. Then, turning, she left him there. From the door of the conservatory the Burglar watched her splendid, lithe figure as she threaded her way through the crowd. Finally she passed beyond his view and he sauntered carelessly toward the door. Once he glanced back. The lumpy individual was following slowly. Then he saw a liveried servant approach the host and whisper to him excitedly. "This is my cue to move," the Burglar told himself grimly. Still watching, he saw the servant point directly at him. The host, with a sudden gesture, tore off his mask and the Burglar accelerated his pace. "Stop that man!" called the host. For one brief instant there was the dead silence which follows general astonishment--and the Burglar ran for the door. Several pairs of hands reached out from the crowd toward him. "There he goes, there!" exclaimed the Burglar excitedly. "That man ahead! I'll catch him!" The ruse opened the way and he went through. The Girl was waiting at the foot of the steps. "They're coming!" he panted as he dragged her along. "Climb in that last car on the end there!" Without a word the Girl ran to the auto and clambered into the front seat. Several men dashed out of the house. Wonderingly her eyes followed the vague figure of the Burglar as he sped along in the shadow of a wall. He paused beneath a window, picked up something and raced for the car. "Stop him!" came a cry. The Burglar flung his burden, which fell at the Girl's feet with a clatter, and leaped. The auto swayed as he landed beside her. With a quick twist of the wheel he headed out. "Hurry, Dick, they're coming!" gasped the Girl. The motor beneath them whirred and panted and the car began to move. "Halt, or I'll fire," came another cry. "Down!" commanded the Burglar. His hand fell on the Girl's shoulder heavily and he dragged her below the level of the seat. Then, bending low over the wheel, he gave the car half power. It leaped out into the road in the path of its own light, just as there came a pistol-shot from behind, followed instantly by another. The car sped on. [Illustration] CHAPTER III Stuyvesant Randolph, millionaire, owner of Seven Oaks and host of the masked ball, was able to tell the police only what happened, and not the manner of its happening. Briefly, this was that a thief, cunningly disguised as a Burglar with dark lantern and revolver in hand, had surreptitiously attended the masked ball by entering at the front door and presenting an invitation card. And when Mr. Randolph got this far in his story even _he_ couldn't keep his face straight. The sum total of everyone's knowledge, therefore, was this: Soon after the grand march a servant entered the smoking room and found the Burglar there alone, standing beside an open window, looking out. This smoking room connected, by a corridor, with a small dining room where the Randolph gold plate was kept in ostentatious seclusion. As the servant entered the smoking-room the Burglar turned away from the window and went out into the ballroom. He did not carry a bundle; he did not appear to be excited. Fifteen or twenty minutes later the servant discovered that eleven plates of the gold service, valued roughly at $15,000, were missing. He informed Mr. Randolph. The information, naturally enough, did not elevate the host's enjoyment of the ball, and he did things hastily. Meanwhile--that is, between the time when the Burglar left the smoking-room and the time when he passed out the front door--the Burglar had talked earnestly with a masked Girl of the West. It was established that, when she left him in the conservatory, she went out the front door. There she was joined by the Burglar, and then came their sensational flight in the automobile--a 40 horse-power car that moved like the wind. The automobile in which the Burglar had gone to Seven Oaks was left behind; thus far it had not been claimed. The identity of the Burglar and the Girl made the mystery. It was easy to conjecture--that's what the police said--how the Burglar got away with the gold plate. He went into the smoking-room, then into the dining-room, dropped the gold plate into a sack and threw the sack out of a window. It was beautifully simple. Just what the Girl had to do with it wasn't very clear; perhaps a score or more articles of jewelry, which had been reported missing by guests, engaged her attention. It was also easy to see how the Burglar and the Girl had been able to shake off pursuit by the police in two other automobiles. The car they had chosen was admittedly the fastest of the scores there, the night was pitch-dark, and, besides, a Burglar like that was liable to do anything. Two shots had been fired at him by the lumpy courtier, who was really Detective Cunningham, but they had only spurred him on. These things were easy to understand. But the identity of the pair was a different and more difficult proposition, and there remained the task of yanking them out of obscurity. This fell to the lot of Detective Mallory, who represented the Supreme Police Intelligence of the Metropolitan District, happily combining a No. 11 shoe and a No. 6 hat. He was a cautious, suspicious, far-seeing man--as police detectives go. For instance, it was he who explained the method of the theft with a lucidity that was astounding. [Illustration] Detective Mallory and two or three of his satellites heard Mr. Randolph's story, then the statements of his two men who had attended the ball in costume, and the statements of the servants. After all this Mr. Mallory chewed his cigar and thought violently for several minutes. Mr. Randolph looked on expectantly; he didn't want to miss anything. "As I understand it, Mr. Randolph," said the Supreme Police Intelligence at last, "each invitation-card presented at the door by your guests bore the name of the person to whom it was issued?" "Yes," replied Mr. Randolph. "Ah!" exclaimed the detective shrewdly. "Then we have a clue." "Where are those cards, Curtis?" asked Mr. Randolph of the servant who had received them at the door. "I didn't know they were of further value, sir, and they were thrown away--into the furnace." Mr. Mallory was crestfallen. "Did you notice if the card presented at the door by the Burglar on the evening of the masked ball at Seven Oaks bore a name?" he asked. He liked to be explicit like that. "Yes, sir. I noticed it particularly because the gentleman was dressed so queerly." "Do you remember the name?" "No, sir." "Would you remember it if you saw it or heard it again?" The servant looked at Mr. Randolph helplessly. "I don't think I would, sir," he answered. "And the Girl? Did you notice the card she gave you?" "I don't remember her at all, sir. Many of the ladies wore wraps when they came in, and her costume would not have been noticeable if she had on a wrap." The Supreme Intelligence was thoughtful for another few minutes. At last he turned to Mr. Randolph again. "You are certain there was only _one_ man at that ball dressed as a Burglar?" he asked. "Yes, thank Heaven," replied Mr. Randolph fervently. "If there'd been another one they might have taken the piano." The Supreme Intelligence frowned. "And this girl was dressed like a Western girl?" he asked. "Yes. A sort of Spirit-of-the-West costume." "And no other woman there wore such a dress?" "No," responded Mr. Randolph. "No," echoed the two detectives. "Now, Mr. Randolph, how many invitations were issued for the ball?" "Three or four hundred. It's a big house," Mr. Randolph apologised, "and we tried to do the thing properly." "How many persons do you suppose actually attended the ball?" "Oh, I don't know. Three hundred, perhaps." Detective Mallory thought again. "It's unquestionably the work of two bold and clever professional crooks," he said at last judicially, and his satellites hung on his words eagerly. "It has every ear-mark of it. They perhaps planned the thing weeks before, and forged invitation-cards, or perhaps stole them--perhaps stole them." He turned suddenly and pointed an accusing finger at the servant, Curtis. "Did you notice the handwriting on the card the Burglar gave you?" he demanded. "No, sir. Not particularly." "I mean, do you recall if it was different in any way from the handwriting on the other cards?" insisted the Supreme Intelligence. "I don't think it was, sir." "If it had been would you have noticed it?" "I might have, sir." "Were the names written on all the invitation-cards by the same hand, Mr. Randolph?" "Yes: my wife's secretary." Detective Mallory arose and paced back and forth across the room with wrinkles in his brow. "Ah!" he said at last, "then we know the cards were not forged, but stolen from someone to whom they had been sent. We know this much, therefore----" he paused a moment. "Therefore all that must be done," Mr. Randolph finished the sentence, "is to find from whom the card or cards were stolen, who presented them at my door, and who got away with the plate." The Supreme Intelligence glared at him aggressively. Mr. Randolph's face was perfectly serious. It was his gold plate, you know. "Yes, that's it," Detective Mallory assented. "Now we'll get after this thing right. Downey, you get that automobile the Burglar left at Seven Oaks and find its owner; also find the car the Burglar and the Girl escaped in. Cunningham, you go to Seven Oaks and look over the premises. See particularly if the Girl left a wrap--she didn't wear one away from there--and follow that up. Blanton, you take a list of invited guests that Mr. Randolph will give you, check off those persons who are known to have been at the ball, and find out all about those who were not, and--follow that up." "That'll take weeks!" complained Blanton. The Supreme Intelligence turned on him fiercely. "Well?" he demanded. He continued to stare for a moment, and Blanton wrinkled up in the baleful glow of his superior's scorn. "And," Detective Mallory added magnanimously, "I will do the rest." Thus the campaign was planned against the Burglar and the Girl. CHAPTER IV Hutchinson Hatch was a newspaper reporter, a long, lean, hungry looking young man with an insatiable appetite for facts. This last was, perhaps, an astonishing trait in a reporter; and Hatch was positively finicky on the point. That's why his City Editor believed in him. If Hatch had come in and told his City Editor that he had seen a blue elephant with pink side-whiskers his City Editor would have _known_ that that elephant was blue--mentally, morally, physically, spiritually and everlastingly--not any washed-out green or purple, but blue. Hatch was remarkable in other ways, too. For instance, he believed in the use of a little human intelligence in his profession. As a matter of fact, on several occasions he had demonstrated that it was really an excellent thing--human intelligence. His mind was well poised, his methods thorough, his style direct. Along with dozens of others Hatch was at work on the Randolph robbery, and knew what the others knew--no more. He had studied the case so closely that he was beginning to believe, strangely enough, that perhaps the police were right in their theory as to the identity of the Burglar and the Girl--that is, that they were professional crooks. He could do a thing like that sometimes--bring his mind around to admit the possibility of somebody else being right. It was on Saturday afternoon--two days after the Randolph affair--that Hatch was sitting in Detective Mallory's private office at Police Headquarters laboriously extracting from the Supreme Intelligence the precise things he had not found out about the robbery. The telephone-bell rang. Hatch got one end of the conversation--he couldn't help it. It was something like this: "Hello!... Yes, Detective Mallory.... Missing?... What's her name?... What?... Oh, Dorothy!... Yes?... Merritt?... Oh, Merryman!... Well, what the deuce is it then?... _SPELL IT!_... M-e-r-e-d-i-t-h. Why didn't you say that at first?... How long has she been gone?... Huh?... Thursday evening?... What does she look like?... Auburn hair. Red, you mean?... Oh, ruddy! I'd like to know what's the difference." The detective had drawn up a pad of paper and was jotting down what Hatch imagined to be the description of a missing girl. Then: "Who is this talking?" asked the detective. There was a little pause as he got the answer, and, having the answer, he whistled his astonishment, after which he glanced around quickly at the reporter, who was staring dreamily out a window. "No," said the Supreme Intelligence over the 'phone. "It wouldn't be wise to make it public. It isn't necessary at all. I understand. I'll order a search immediately. No. The newspapers will get nothing of it. Good-by." "A story?" inquired Hatch carelessly as the detective hung up the receiver. "Doesn't amount to anything," was the reply. "Yes, that's obvious," remarked the reporter drily. "Well, whatever it is, it is not going to be made public," retorted the Supreme Intelligence sharply. He never did like Hatch, anyway. "It's one of those things that don't do any good in the newspapers, so I'll not let this one get there." Hatch yawned to show that he had no further interest in the matter, and went out. But there was the germ of an idea in his head which would have startled Detective Mallory, and he paced up and down outside to develop it. A girl missing! A red-headed girl missing! A red-headed girl missing since Thursday! Thursday was the night of the Randolph masked ball. The missing Girl of the West was red-headed! Mallory had seemed astonished when he learned the name of the person who reported this last case! Therefore the person who reported it was high up--perhaps! Certainly high enough up to ask and receive the courtesy of police suppression--and the missing girl's name was Dorothy Meredith! Hatch stood still for a long time on the curb and figured it out. Suddenly he rushed off to a telephone and called up Stuyvesant Randolph at Seven Oaks. He asked the first question with trepidation: "Mr. Randolph, can you give me the address of Miss Dorothy Meredith?" "Miss Meredith?" came the answer. "Let's see. I think she is stopping with the Morgan Greytons, at their suburban place." The reporter gulped down a shout. "Worked, by thunder!" he exclaimed to himself. Then, in a deadly, forced calm: "She attended the masked ball Thursday evening, didn't she?" "Well, she was invited." "You didn't see her there?" "No. Who _is_ this?" Then Hatch hung up the receiver. He was nearly choking with excitement, for, in addition to all those virtues which have been enumerated, he possessed, too, the quality of enthusiasm. It was no part of his purpose to tell anybody anything. Mallory didn't know, he was confident, anything of the girl having been a possible guest at the ball. And what Mallory didn't know now wouldn't be found out, all of which was a sad reflection upon the detective. In this frame of mind Hatch started for the suburban place of the Greytons. He found the house without difficulty. Morgan Greyton was an aged gentleman of wealth and exclusive ideas--and wasn't in. Hatch handed a card bearing only his name, to a maid, and after a few minutes Mrs. Greyton appeared. She was a motherly, sweet-faced old lady of seventy, with that grave, exquisite courtesy which makes mere man feel ashamed of himself. Hatch had that feeling when he looked at her and thought of what he was going to ask. "I came up direct from Police Headquarters," he explained diplomatically, "to learn any details you may be able to give us as to the disappearance of Miss Meredith." "Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Greyton. "My husband said he was going to ask the police to look into the matter. It is most mysterious--most mysterious! We can't imagine where Dollie is, unless she has eloped. Do you know that idea keeps coming to me and won't go away?" She spoke as if it were a naughty child. "If you'll tell me something about Miss Meredith--who she is and all that?" Hatch suggested. "Oh, yes, to be sure," exclaimed Mrs. Greyton. "Dollie is a distant cousin of my husband's sister's husband," she explained precisely. "She lives in Baltimore, but is visiting us. She has been here for several weeks. She's a dear, sweet girl, but I'm afraid--afraid she has eloped." The aged voice quivered a little, and Hatch was more ashamed of himself than ever. "Some time ago she met a man named Herbert--Richard Herbert, I think, and----" "Dick Herbert?" the reporter exclaimed suddenly. "Do you know the young gentleman?" inquired the old lady eagerly. "Yes, it just happens that we were classmates in Harvard," said the reporter. "And is he a nice young man?" "A good, clean-cut, straightforward, decent man," replied Hatch. He could speak with a certain enthusiasm about Dick Herbert. "Go on, please," he urged. "Well, for some reason I don't know, Dollie's father objects to Mr. Herbert's attentions to her--as a matter of fact, Mr. Meredith has absolutely prohibited them--but she's a young, headstrong girl, and I fear that, although she had outwardly yielded to her father's wishes, she had clandestinely kept up a correspondence with Mr. Herbert. Last Thursday evening she went out unattended and since then we have not heard from her--not a word. We can only surmise--my husband and I--that they have eloped. I know her father and mother will be heart-broken, but I have always noticed that if a girl sets her heart on a man, she will get him. And perhaps it's just as well that she _has_ eloped now since you assure me he is a nice young man." Hatch was choking back a question that rose in his throat. He hated to ask it, because he felt this dear, garrulous old woman would have hated him for it, if she could have known its purpose. But at last it came. "Do you happen to know," he asked, "if Miss Meredith attended the Randolph ball at Seven Oaks on Thursday evening?" "I dare say she received an invitation," was the reply. "She receives many invitations, but I don't think she went there. It was a costume affair, I suppose?" The reporter nodded. "Well, I hardly believe she went there then," Mrs. Greyton replied. "She has had no costume of any sort made. No, I am positive she has eloped with Mr. Herbert, but I should like to hear from her to satisfy myself and explain to her parents. We did not permit Mr. Herbert to come here, and it will be very hard to explain." Hatch heard the slight rustle of a skirt in the hall and glanced toward the door. No one appeared, and he turned back to Mrs. Greyton. "I don't suppose it possible that Miss Meredith has returned to Baltimore?" he asked. "Oh, no!" was the positive reply. "Her father there telegraphed to her to-day--I opened it--saying he would be here, probably to-night, and I--I haven't the heart to tell him the truth when he arrives. Somehow, I have been hoping that we would hear and--and----" Then Hatch took his shame in his hand and excused himself. The maid attended him to the door. "How much is it worth to you to know if Miss Meredith went to the masked ball?" asked the maid cautiously. "Eavesdropping, eh?" asked Hatch in disgust. The maid shrugged her shoulders. "How much is it worth?" she repeated. Hatch extended his hand. She took a ten-dollar bill which lay there and secreted it in some remote recess of her being. "Miss Meredith did go to the ball," she said. "She went there to meet Mr. Herbert. They had arranged to elope from there and she had made all her plans. I was in her confidence and assisted her." "What did she wear?" asked Hatch eagerly. "Her costume was that of a Western Girl," the maid responded. "She wore a sombrero, and carried a Bowie knife and revolver." Hatch nearly swallowed his palate. CHAPTER V Hatch started back to the city with his brain full of seven-column heads. He thoughtfully lighted a cigar just before he stepped on the car. "No smoking," said the conductor. The reporter stared at him with dull eyes and then went in and sat down with the cigar in his mouth. "No smoking, I told you," bawled the conductor. "Certainly not," exclaimed Hatch indignantly. He turned and glared at the only other occupant of the car, a little girl. She wasn't smoking. Then he looked at the conductor and awoke suddenly. "Miss Meredith is the girl," Hatch was thinking. "Mallory doesn't even dream it and never will. He won't send a man out there to do what I did. The Greytons are anxious to keep it quiet, and they won't say anything to anybody else until they know what really happened. I've got it bottled up, and don't know how to pull the cork. Now, the question is: What possible connection can there be between Dorothy Meredith and the Burglar? Was Dick Herbert the Burglar? Why, of course _not_! Then--what?" Pondering all these things deeply, Hatch left the car and ran up to see Dick Herbert. He was too self-absorbed to notice that the blinds of the house were drawn. He rang, and after a long time a man-servant answered the bell. "Mr. Herbert here?" Hatch asked. "Yes, sir, he's here," replied the servant, "but I don't know if he can see you. He is not very well, sir." "Not very well?" Hatch repeated. "No, it's not that he's sick, sir. He was hurt and----" "Who is it, Blair?" came Herbert's voice from the top of the stair. "Mr. Hatch, sir." "Come up, Hatch!" Dick called cordially. "Glad to see you. I'm so lonesome here I don't know what to do with myself." The reporter ran up the steps and into Dick's room. "Not that one," Dick smiled as Hatch reached for his right hand. "It's out of business. Try this one----" And he offered his left. "What's the matter?" Hatch inquired. "Little hurt, that's all," said Dick. "Sit down. I got it knocked out the other night and I've been here in this big house alone with Blair ever since. The doctor told me not to venture out yet. It has been lonesome, too. All the folks are away, up in Nova Scotia, and took the other servants along. How are you, anyhow?" Hatch sat down and stared at Dick thoughtfully. Herbert was a good-looking, forceful person of twenty-eight or thirty, and a corking right-guard. Now he seemed a little washed out, and there was a sort of pallor beneath the natural tan. He was a young man of family, unburdened by superlative wealth, but possessing in his own person the primary elements of success. He looked what Hatch had said of him: a "good, clean-cut, straightforward, decent man." "I came up here to say something to you in my professional capacity," the reporter began at last; "and frankly, I don't know how to say it." Dick straightened up in his chair with a startled expression on his face. He didn't speak, but there was something in his eyes which interested Hatch immensely. "Have you been reading the papers?" the reporter asked--"that is, during the last couple of days?" "Yes." "Of course, then, you've seen the stories about the Randolph robbery?" Dick smiled a little. "Yes," he said. "Clever, wasn't it?" "It was," Hatch responded enthusiastically. "It was." He was silent for a moment as he accepted and lighted a cigarette. "It doesn't happen," he went on, "that, by any possible chance, you know anything about it, does it?" "Not beyond what I saw in the papers. Why?" "I'll be frank and ask you some questions, Dick," Hatch resumed in a tone which betrayed his discomfort. "Remember I am here in my official capacity--that is, not as a friend of yours, but as a reporter. You need not answer the questions if you don't want to." Dick arose with a little agitation in his manner and went over and stood beside the window. "What is it all about?" he demanded. "What are the questions?" "Do you know where Miss Dorothy Meredith is?" Dick turned suddenly and glared at him with a certain lowering of his eyebrows which Hatch knew from the football days. "What about her?" he asked. "Where is she?" Hatch insisted. "At home, so far as I know. Why?" "She is not there," the reporter informed him, "and the Greytons believe that you eloped with her." "Eloped with her?" Dick repeated. "She is not at home?" "No. She's been missing since Thursday evening--the evening of the Randolph affair. Mr. Greyton has asked the police to look for her, and they are doing so now, but quietly. It is not known to the newspapers--that is, to other newspapers. Your name has not been mentioned to the police. Now, isn't it a fact that you did intend to elope with her on Thursday evening?" Dick strode feverishly across the room several times, then stopped in front of Hatch's chair. "This isn't any silly joke?" he asked fiercely. "Isn't it a fact that you did intend to elope with her on Thursday evening?" the reporter went on steadily. "I won't answer that question." "Did you get an invitation to the Randolph ball?" "Yes." "Did you go?" Dick was staring straight down into his eyes. "I won't answer that, either," he said after a pause. "Where were you on the evening of the masked ball?" "Nor will I answer that." When the newspaper instinct is fully aroused a reporter has no friends. Hatch had forgotten that he ever knew Dick Herbert. To him the young man was now merely a thing from which he might wring certain information for the benefit of the palpitating public. "Did the injury to your arm," he went on after the approved manner of attorney for the prosecution, "prevent you going to the ball?" "I won't answer that." "What is the nature of the injury?" "Now, see here, Hatch," Dick burst out, and there was a dangerous undertone in his manner, "I shall not answer any more questions--particularly that last one--unless I know what this is all about. Several things happened on the evening of the masked ball that I can't go over with you or anyone else, but as for me having any personal knowledge of events at the masked ball--well, you and I are not talking of the same thing at all." He paused, started to say something else, then changed his mind and was silent. "Was it a pistol shot?" Hatch went on calmly. Dick's lips were compressed to a thin line as he looked at the reporter, and he controlled himself only by an effort. "Where did you get that idea?" he demanded. Hatch would have hesitated a long time before he told him where he got that idea; but vaguely it had some connection with the fact that at least two shots were fired at the Burglar and the Girl when they raced away from Seven Oaks. While the reporter was rummaging through his mind for an answer to the question there came a rap at the door and Blair appeared with a card. He handed it to Dick, who glanced at it, looked a little surprised, then nodded. Blair disappeared. After a moment there were footsteps on the stairs and Stuyvesant Randolph entered. CHAPTER VI Dick arose and offered his left hand to Mr. Randolph, who calmly ignored it, turning his gaze instead upon the reporter. "I had hoped to find you alone," he said frostily. Hatch made as if to rise. "Sit still, Hatch," Dick commanded. "Mr. Hatch is a friend of mine, Mr. Randolph. I don't know what you want to say, but whatever it is, you may say it freely before him." Hatch knew that humour in Dick. It always preceded the psychological moment when he wanted to climb down someone's throat and open an umbrella. The tone was calm, the words clearly enunciated, and the face was white--whiter than it had been before. "I shouldn't like to----" Mr. Randolph began. "You may say what you want to before Mr. Hatch, or not at all, as you please," Dick went on evenly. Mr. Randolph cleared his throat twice and waved his hands with an expression of resignation. "Very well," he replied. "I have come to request the return of my gold plate." Hatch leaned forward in his chair, gripping its arms fiercely. This was a question bearing broadly on a subject that he wanted to mention, but he didn't know how. Mr. Randolph apparently found it easy enough. "What gold plate?" asked Dick steadily. "The eleven pieces that you, in the garb of a Burglar, took from my house last Thursday evening," said Mr. Randolph. He was quite calm. Dick took a sudden step forward, then straightened up with flushed face. His left hand closed with a snap and the nails bit into the flesh; the fingers of the helpless right hand worked nervously. In a minute now Hatch could see him climbing all over Mr. Randolph. But again Dick gained control of himself. It was a sort of recognition of the fact that Mr. Randolph was fifty years old; Hatch knew it; Mr. Randolph's knowledge on the subject didn't appear. Suddenly Dick laughed. "Sit down, Mr. Randolph, and tell me about it," he suggested. "It isn't necessary to go into details," continued Mr. Randolph, still standing. "I had not wanted to go this far in the presence of a third person, but you forced me to do it. Now, will you or will you not return the plate?" "Would you mind telling me just what makes you think I got it?" Dick insisted. "It is as simple as it is conclusive," said Mr. Randolph. "You received an invitation to the masked ball. You went there in your Burglar garb and handed your invitation-card to my servant. He noticed you particularly and read your name on the card. He remembered that name perfectly. I was compelled to tell the story as I knew it to Detective Mallory. I did not mention your name; my servant remembered it, had given it to me in fact, but I forbade him to repeat it to the police. He told them something about having burned the invitation-cards." "Oh, wouldn't that please Mallory?" Hatch thought. "I have not even intimated to the police that I have the least idea of your identity," Mr. Randolph went on, still standing. "I had believed that it was some prank of yours and that the plate would be returned in due time. Certainly I could not account for you taking it in any other circumstances. My reticence, it is needless to say, was in consideration of your name and family. But now I want the plate. If it was a prank to carry out the rôle of the Burglar, it is time for it to end. If the fact that the matter is now in the hands of the police has frightened you into the seeming necessity of keeping the plate for the present to protect yourself, you may dismiss that. When the plate is returned to me I shall see that the police drop the matter." Dick had listened with absorbed interest. Hatch looked at him from time to time and saw only attention--not anger. "And the Girl?" asked Dick at last. "Does it happen that you have as cleverly traced her?" "No," Mr. Randolph replied frankly. "I haven't the faintest idea who she is. I suppose no one knows that but you. I have no interest further than to recover the plate. I may say that I called here yesterday, Friday, and asked to see you, but was informed that you had been hurt, so I went away to give you opportunity to recover somewhat." "Thanks," said Dick drily. "Awfully considerate." There was a long silence. Hatch was listening with all the multitudinous ears of a good reporter. "Now the plate," Mr. Randolph suggested again impatiently. "Do you deny that you got it?" "I do," replied Dick firmly. "I was afraid you would, and, believe me, Mr. Herbert, such a course is a mistaken one," said Mr. Randolph. "I will give you twenty-four hours to change your mind. If, at the end of that time, you see fit to return the plate, I shall drop the matter and use my influence to have the police do so. If the plate is not returned I shall be compelled to turn over all the facts to the police with your name." "Is that all?" Dick demanded suddenly. "Yes, I believe so." "Then get out of here before I----" Dick started forward, then dropped back into a chair. Mr. Randolph drew on his gloves and went out, closing the door behind him. For a long time Dick sat there, seemingly oblivious of Hatch's presence, supporting his head with his left hand, while the right hung down loosely beside him. Hatch was inclined to be sympathetic, for, strange as it may seem, some reporters have even the human quality of sympathy--although there are persons who will not believe it. "Is there anything I can do?" Hatch asked at last. "Anything you want to say?" "Nothing," Dick responded wearily. "Nothing. You may think what you like. There are, as I said, several things of which I cannot speak, even if it comes to a question--a question of having to face the charge of theft in open court. I simply _can't_ say anything." "But--but----" stammered the reporter. "Absolutely not another word," said Dick firmly. CHAPTER VII Those satellites of the Supreme Police Intelligence of the Metropolitan District who had been taking the Randolph mystery to pieces to see what made it tick, lined up in front of Detective Mallory, in his private office, at police headquarters, early Saturday evening. They did not seem happy. The Supreme Intelligence placed his feet on the desk and glowered; that was a part of the job. "Well, Downey?" he asked. "I went out to Seven Oaks and got the automobile the Burglar left, as you instructed," reported Downey. "Then I started out to find its owner, or someone who knew it. It didn't have a number on it, so the job wasn't easy, but I found the owner all right, all right." Detective Mallory permitted himself to look interested. "He lives at Merton, four miles from Seven Oaks," Downey resumed. "His name is Blake--William Blake. His auto was in the shed a hundred feet or so from his house on Thursday evening at nine o'clock. It wasn't there Friday morning." "Umph!" remarked Detective Mallory. "There is no question but what Blake told me the truth," Downey went on. "To me it seems provable that the Burglar went out from the city to Merton by train, stole the auto and ran it on to Seven Oaks. That's all there seems to be to it. Blake proved ownership of the machine and I left it with him." The Supreme Intelligence chewed his cigar frantically. "And the other machine?" he asked. "I have here a blood-stained cushion, the back of a seat from the car in which the Burglar and the Girl escaped," continued Downey in a walk-right-up-ladies-and-gentlemen sort of voice. "I found the car late this afternoon at a garage in Pleasantville. We knew, of course, that it belonged to Nelson Sharp, a guest at the masked ball. According to the manager of the garage the car was standing in front of his place this morning when he arrived to open up. The number had been removed." [Illustration] Detective Mallory examined the cushion which Downey handed to him. Several dark brown stains told the story--one of the occupants of the car had been wounded. "Well, that's something," commented the Supreme Intelligence. "We know now that when Cunningham fired at least one of the persons in the car was hit, and we may make our search accordingly. The Burglar and the Girl probably left the car where it was found during the preceding night." "It seems so," said Downey. "I shouldn't think they would have dared to keep it long. Autos of that size and power are too easily traced. I asked Mr. Sharp to run down and identify the car and he did so. The stains were new." The Supreme Intelligence digested that in silence while his satellites studied his face, seeking some inkling of the convolutions of that marvellous mind. "Very good, Downey," said Detective Mallory at last. "Now Cunningham?" "Nothing," said Cunningham in shame and sorrow. "Nothing." "Didn't you find anything at all about the premises?" "Nothing," repeated Cunningham. "The Girl left no wrap at Seven Oaks. None of the servants remembers having seen her in the room where the wraps were checked. I searched all around the place and found a dent in the ground under the smoking-room window, where the gold plate had been thrown, and there were what seemed to be footprints in the grass, but it was all nothing." "We can't arrest a dent and footprints," said the Supreme Intelligence cuttingly. The satellites laughed sadly. It was part of the deference they owed to the Supreme Intelligence. "And you, Blanton?" asked Mr. Mallory. "What did you do with the list of invited guests?" "I haven't got a good start yet," responded Blanton hopelessly. "There are three hundred and sixty names on the list. I have been able to see possibly thirty. It's worse than making a city directory. I won't be through for a month. Randolph and his wife checked off a large number of these whom they knew were there. The others I am looking up as rapidly as I can." The detectives sat moodily thoughtful for uncounted minutes. Finally Detective Mallory broke the silence. [Illustration: "'The stains were new'"] "There seems to be no question but that any clew that might have come from either of the automobiles is disposed of unless it is the fact that we now know one of the thieves was wounded. I readily see how the theft could have been committed by a man as bold as this fellow. Now we must concentrate all our efforts to running down the invited guests and learning just where they were that evening. All of you will have to get on this job and hustle it. We know that the Burglar _did_ present an invitation-card with a name on it." The detectives went their respective ways and then Detective Mallory deigned to receive representatives of the press, among them Hutchinson Hatch. Hatch was worried. He knew a whole lot of things, but they didn't do him any good. He felt that he could print nothing as it stood, yet he would not tell the police, because that would give it to everyone else, and he had a picture of how the Supreme Intelligence would tangle it if he got hold of it. "Well, boys," said Detective Mallory smilingly, when the press filed in, "there's nothing to say. Frankly, I will tell you that we have not been able to learn anything--at least anything that can be given out. You know, of course, about the finding of the two automobiles that figured in the case, and the blood-stained cushion?" The press nodded collectively. "Well, that's all there is yet. My men are still at work, but I'm a little afraid the gold plate will never be found. It has probably been melted up. The cleverness of the thieves you can judge for yourself by the manner in which they handled the automobiles." And yet Hatch was not surprised when, late that night, Police Headquarters made known the latest sensation. This was a bulletin, based on a telephone message from Stuyvesant Randolph to the effect that the gold plate had been returned by express to Seven Oaks. This mystified the police beyond description; but official mystification was as nothing to Hatch's state of mind. He knew of the scene in Dick Herbert's room and remembered Mr. Randolph's threat. "Then Dick _did_ have the plate," he told himself. CHAPTER VIII Whole flocks of detectives, reporters, and newspaper artists appeared at Seven Oaks early next morning. It had been too late to press an investigation the night before. The newspapers had only time telephonically to confirm the return of the plate. Now the investigators unanimously voiced one sentiment: "Show us!" Hatch arrived in the party headed by Detective Mallory, with Downey and Cunningham trailing. Blanton was off somewhere with his little list, presumably still at it. Mr. Randolph had not come down to breakfast when the investigators arrived, but had given his servant permission to exhibit the plate, the wrappings in which it had come, and the string wherewith it had been tied. The plate arrived in a heavy paper-board box, covered twice over with a plain piece of stiff brown paper, which had no markings save the address and the "paid" stamp of the express company. Detective Mallory devoted himself first to the address. It was: MR. STUYVESANT RANDOLPH, "Seven Oaks," via Merton. In the upper left-hand corner were scribbled the words: From John Smith, State Street, Watertown. Detectives Mallory, Downey, and Cunningham studied the handwriting on the paper minutely. "It's a man's," said Detective Downey. "It's a woman's," said Detective Cunningham. "It's a child's," said Detective Mallory. "Whatever it is, it is disguised," said Hatch. He was inclined to agree with Detective Cunningham that it was a woman's purposely altered, and in that event--Great Cæsar! There came that flock of seven-column heads again! And he couldn't open the bottle! The simple story of the arrival of the gold plate at Seven Oaks was told thrillingly by the servant. "It was eight o'clock last night," he said. "I was standing in the hall here. Mr. and Mrs. Randolph were still at the dinner table. They dined alone. Suddenly I heard the sound of waggon-wheels on the granolithic road in front of the house. I listened intently. Yes, it was waggon-wheels." The detectives exchanged significant glances. "I heard the waggon stop," the servant went on in an awed tone. "Still I listened. Then came the sound of footsteps on the walk and then on the steps. I walked slowly along the hall toward the front door. As I did so the bell rang." "Yes, ting-a-ling-a-ling, we know. Go on," Hatch interrupted impatiently. "I opened the door," the servant continued. "A man stood there with a package. He was a burly fellow. 'Mr. Randolph live here?' he asked gruffly. 'Yes,' I said. 'Here's a package for him,' said the man. 'Sign here.' I took the package and signed a book he gave me, and--and----" "In other words," Hatch interrupted again, "an expressman brought the package here, you signed for it, and he went away?" The servant stared at him haughtily. "Yes, that's it," he said coldly. A few minutes later Mr. Randolph in person appeared. He glanced at Hatch with a little surprise in his manner, nodded curtly, then turned to the detectives. He could not add to the information the servant had given. His plate had been returned, pre-paid. The matter was at an end so far as he was concerned. There seemed to be no need of further investigation. "How about the jewelry that was stolen from your other guests?" demanded Detective Mallory. "Of course, there's that," said Mr. Randolph. "It had passed out of my mind." "Instead of being at an end this case has just begun," the detective declared emphatically. Mr. Randolph seemed to have no further interest in the matter. He started out, then turned back at the door, and made a slight motion to Hatch which the reporter readily understood. As a result Hatch and Mr. Randolph were closeted together in a small room across the hall a few minutes later. "May I ask your occupation, Mr. Hatch?" inquired Mr. Randolph. "I'm a reporter," was the reply. "A reporter?" Mr. Randolph seemed surprised. "Of course, when I saw you in Mr. Herbert's rooms," he went on after a little pause, "I met you only as his friend. You saw what happened there. Now, may I ask you what you intend to publish about this affair?" Hatch considered the question a moment. There seemed to be no objection to telling. "I can't publish anything until I know everything, or until the police act," he confessed frankly. "I had been talking to Dick Herbert in a general way about this case when you arrived yesterday. I knew several things, or thought I did, that the police do not even suspect. But, of course, I can print only just what the police know and say." "I'm glad of that--very glad of it," said Mr. Randolph. "It seems to have been a freak of some sort on Mr. Herbert's part, and, candidly, I can't understand it. Of course he returned the plate, as I knew he would." "Do you really believe he is the man who came here as the Burglar?" asked Hatch curiously. "I should not have done what you saw me do if I had not been absolutely certain," Mr. Randolph explained. "One of the things, particularly, that was called to my attention--I don't know that you know of it--is the fact that the Burglar had a cleft in his chin. You know, of course, that Mr. Herbert has such a cleft. Then there is the invitation-card with his name. Everything together makes it conclusive." Mr. Randolph and the reporter shook hands. Three hours later the press and police had uncovered the Watertown end of the mystery as to how the express package had been sent. It was explained by the driver of an express waggon there and absorbed by greedily listening ears. "The boss told me to call at No. 410 State Street and get a bundle," the driver explained. "I think somebody telephoned to him to send the waggon. I went up there yesterday morning. It's a small house, back a couple of hundred feet from the street, and has a stone fence around it. I opened the gate, went in, and rang the bell. "No one answered the first ring, and I rang again. Still nobody answered and I tried the door. It was locked. I walked around the house, thinking there might be somebody in the back, but it was all locked up. I figured as how the folks that had telephoned for me wasn't in, and started out to my waggon, intending to stop by later. "Just as I got to the gate, going out, I saw a package set down inside, hidden from the street behind the stone fence, with a dollar bill on it. I just naturally looked at it. It was the package directed to Mr. Randolph. I reasoned as how the folks who 'phoned had to go out and left the package, so I took it along. I made out a receipt to John Smith, the name that was in the corner, and pinned it to a post, took the package and the money and went along. That's all." "You don't know if the package was there when you went in?" he was asked. "I dunno. I didn't look. I couldn't help but see it when I came out, so I took it." Then the investigators sought out "the boss." "Did the person who 'phoned give you a name?" inquired Detective Mallory. "No, I didn't ask for one." "Was it a man or a woman talking?" "A man," was the unhesitating reply. "He had a deep, heavy voice." The investigators trailed away, dismally despondent, toward No. 410 State Street. It was unoccupied; inquiry showed that it had been unoccupied for months. The Supreme Intelligence picked the lock and the investigators walked in, craning their necks. They expected, at the least, to find a thieves' rendezvous. There was nothing but dirt, and dust, and grime. Then the investigators returned to the city. They had found only that the gold plate had been returned, and they knew that when they started. Hatch went home and sat down with his head in his hands to add up all he didn't know about the affair. It was surprising how much there was of it. "Dick Herbert either did or didn't go to the ball," he soliloquised. "_Something_ happened to him that evening. He either did or didn't steal the gold plate, and every circumstance indicates that he did--which, of course, he didn't. Dorothy Meredith either was or was not at the ball. The maid's statement shows that she was, yet no one there recognised her--which indicates that she wasn't. She either did or didn't run away with somebody in an automobile. Anyhow, something happened to _her_, because she's missing. The gold plate is stolen, and the gold plate is back. I know _that_, thank Heaven! And now, knowing more about this affair than any other single individual, I don't know _anything_." PART II THE GIRL AND THE PLATE CHAPTER I Low-bent over the steering-wheel, the Burglar sent the automobile scuttling breathlessly along the flat road away from Seven Oaks. At the first shot he crouched down in the seat, dragging the Girl with him; at the second, he winced a little and clenched his teeth tightly. The car's headlights cut a dazzling pathway through the shadows, and trees flitted by as a solid wall. The shouts of pursuers were left behind, and still the Girl clung to his arm. "Don't do that," he commanded abruptly. "You'll make me smash into something." "Why, Dick, they shot at us!" she protested indignantly. The Burglar glanced at her, and, when he turned his eyes to the smooth road again, there was a flicker of a smile about the set lips. "Yes, I had some such impression myself," he acquiesced grimly. "Why, they might have killed us!" the Girl went on. "It is just barely possible that they had some such absurd idea when they shot," replied the Burglar. "Guess you never got caught in a pickle like this before?" "I certainly never did!" replied the Girl emphatically. The whir and grind of their car drowned other sounds--sounds from behind--but from time to time the Burglar looked back, and from time to time he let out a new notch in the speed-regulator. Already the pace was terrific, and the Girl bounced up and down beside him at each trivial irregularity in the road, while she clung frantically to the seat. "Is it necessary to go so awfully fast?" she gasped at last. The wind was beating on her face, her mask blew this way and that; the beribboned sombrero clung frantically to a fast-failing strand of ruddy hair. She clutched at the hat and saved it, but her hair tumbled down about her shoulders, a mass of gold, and floated out behind. "Oh," she chattered, "I can't keep my hat on!" The Burglar took another quick look behind, then his foot went out against the speed-regulator and the car fairly leaped with suddenly increased impetus. The regulator was in the last notch now, and the car was one that had raced at Ormonde Beach. "Oh, dear!" exclaimed the Girl again. "Can't you go a little slower?" "Look behind," directed the Burglar tersely. She glanced back and gave a little cry. Two giant eyes stared at her from a few hundred yards away as another car swooped along in pursuit, and behind this ominously glittering pair was still another. "They're chasing us, aren't they?" "They are," replied the Burglar grimly, "but if these tires hold, they haven't got a chance. A breakdown would----" He didn't finish the sentence. There was a sinister note in his voice, but the Girl was still looking back and did not heed it. To her excited imagination it seemed that the giant eyes behind were creeping up, and again she clutched the Burglar's arm. "Don't do that, I say," he commanded again. "But, Dick, they mustn't catch us--they mustn't!" "They won't." "But if they should----" "They won't," he repeated. "It would be perfectly awful!" "Worse than that." For a time the Girl silently watched him bending over the wheel, and a singular feeling of security came to her. Then the car swept around a bend in the road, careening perilously, and the glaring eyes were lost. She breathed more freely. "I never knew you handled an auto so well," she said admiringly. "I do lots of things people don't know I do," he replied. "Are those lights still there?" "No, thank goodness!" The Burglar touched a lever with his left hand and the whir of the machine became less pronounced. After a moment it began to slow down. The Girl noticed it and looked at him with new apprehension. "Oh, we're stopping!" she exclaimed. "I know it." They ran on for a few hundred feet; then the Burglar set the brake and, after a deal of jolting, the car stopped. He leaped out and ran around behind. As the Girl watched him uneasily there came a sudden crash and the auto trembled a little. "What is it?" she asked quickly. "I smashed that tail lamp," he answered. "They can see it, and it's too easy for them to follow." He stamped on the shattered fragments in the road, then came around to the side to climb in again, extending his left hand to the Girl. "Quick, give me your hand," he requested. She did so wonderingly and he pulled himself into the seat beside her with a perceptible effort. The car shivered, then started on again, slowly at first, but gathering speed each moment. The Girl was staring at her companion curiously, anxiously. "Are you hurt?" she asked at last. He did not answer at the moment, not until the car had regained its former speed and was hurtling headlong through the night. "My right arm's out of business," he explained briefly, then: "I got that second bullet in the shoulder." "Oh, Dick, Dick," she exclaimed, "and you hadn't said anything about it! You need assistance!" A sudden rush of sympathy caused her to lay her hands again on his left arm. He shook them off roughly with something like anger in his manner. "Don't do that!" he commanded for the third time. "You'll make me smash hell out of this car." Startled by the violence of his tone, she recoiled dumbly, and the car swept on. As before, the Burglar looked back from time to time, but the lights did not reappear. For a long time the Girl was silent and finally he glanced at her. "I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I didn't mean to speak so sharply, but--but it's true." "It's really of no consequence," she replied coldly. "I am sorry--very sorry." "Thank you," he replied. "Perhaps it might be as well for you to stop the car and let me out," she went on after a moment. The Burglar either didn't hear or wouldn't heed. The dim lights of a small village rose up before them, then faded away again; a dog barked lonesomely beside the road. The streaming lights of their car revealed a tangle of crossroads just ahead, offering a definite method of shaking off pursuit. Their car swerved widely, and the Burglar's attention was centred on the road ahead. "Does your arm pain you?" asked the Girl at last timidly. "No," he replied shortly. "It's a sort of numbness. I'm afraid I'm losing blood, though." "Hadn't we better go back to the village and see a doctor?" "Not _this_ evening," he responded promptly in a tone which she did not understand. "I'll stop somewhere soon and bind it up." At last, when the village was well behind, the car came to a dark little road which wandered off aimlessly through a wood, and the Burglar slowed down to turn into it. Once in the shelter of the overhanging branches they proceeded slowly for a hundred yards or more, finally coming to a standstill. "We must do it here," he declared. He leaped from the car, stumbled and fell. In an instant the Girl was beside him. The reflected light from the auto showed her dimly that he was trying to rise, showed her the pallor of his face where the chin below the mask was visible. "I'm afraid it's pretty bad," he said weakly. Then he fainted. The Girl, stooping, raised his head to her lap and pressed her lips to his feverishly, time after time. "Dick, Dick!" she sobbed, and tears fell upon the Burglar's sinister mask. CHAPTER II When the Burglar awoke to consciousness he was as near heaven as any mere man ever dares expect to be. He was comfortable--quite comfortable--wrapped in a delicious, languorous lassitude which forbade him opening his eyes to realisation. A woman's hand lay on his forehead, caressingly, and dimly he knew that another hand cuddled cosily in one of his own. He lay still, trying to remember, before he opened his eyes. Someone beside him breathed softly, and he listened, as if to music. Gradually the need of action--just what action and to what purpose did not occur to him--impressed itself on his mind. He raised the disengaged hand to his face and touched the mask, which had been pushed back on his forehead. Then he recalled the ball, the shot, the chase, the hiding in the woods. He opened his eyes with a start. Utter darkness lay about him--for a moment he was not certain whether it was the darkness of blindness or of night. "Dick, are you awake?" asked the Girl softly. He knew the voice and was content. "Yes," he answered languidly. He closed his eyes again and some strange, subtle perfume seemed to envelop him. He waited. Warm lips were pressed to his own, thrilling him strangely, and the Girl rested a soft cheek against his. "We have been very foolish, Dick," she said, sweetly chiding, after a moment. "It was all my fault for letting you expose yourself to danger, but I didn't dream of such a thing as this happening. I shall never forgive myself, because----" "But----" he began protestingly. "Not another word about it now," she hurried on. "We must go very soon. How do you feel?" "I'm all right, or will be in a minute," he responded, and he made as if to rise. "Where is the car?" "Right here. I extinguished the lights and managed to stop the engine for fear those horrid people who were after us might notice." "Good girl!" "When you jumped out and fainted I jumped out, too. I'm afraid I was not very clever, but I managed to bind your arm. I took my handkerchief and pressed it against the wound after ripping your coat, then I bound it there. It stopped the flow of blood, but, Dick, dear, you must have medical attention just as soon as possible." The Burglar moved his shoulder a little and winced. "Just as soon as I did that," the Girl went on, "I made you comfortable here on a cushion from the car." "Good girl!" he said again. "Then I sat down to wait until you got better. I had no stimulant or anything, and I didn't dare to leave you, so--so I just waited," she ended with a weary little sigh. "How long was I knocked out?" he queried. "I don't know; half an hour, perhaps." "The bag is all right, I suppose?" "The bag?" "The bag with the stuff--the one I threw in the car when we started?" "Oh, yes, I suppose so! Really, I hadn't thought of it." "Hadn't thought of it?" repeated the Burglar, and there was a trace of astonishment in his voice. "By George, you're a wonder!" he added. He started to get on his feet, then dropped back weakly. "Say, girlie," he requested, "see if you can find the bag in the car there and hand it out. Let's take a look." "Where is it?" "Somewhere in front. I felt it at my feet when I jumped out." There was a rustle of skirts in the darkness, and after a moment a faint muffled clank as of one heavy metal striking dully against another. "Goodness!" exclaimed the Girl. "It's heavy enough. What's in it?" "What's in it?" repeated the Burglar, and he chuckled. "A fortune, nearly. It's worth being punctured for. Let me see." In the darkness he took the bag from her hands and fumbled with it a moment. She heard the metallic sound again and then several heavy objects were poured out on the ground. "A good fourteen pounds of pure gold," commented the Burglar. "By George, I haven't but one match, but we'll see what it's like." The match was struck, sputtered for a moment, then flamed up, and the Girl, standing, looked down upon the Burglar on his knees beside a heap of gold plate. She stared at the glittering mass as if fascinated, and her eyes opened wide. "Why, Dick, what is that?" she asked. "It's Randolph's plate," responded the Burglar complacently. "I don't know how much it's worth, but it must be several thousands, on dead weight." "What are you doing with it?" "What am I doing with it?" repeated the Burglar. He was about to look up when the match burned his finger and he dropped it. "That's a silly question." "But how came it in your possession?" the Girl insisted. "I acquired it by the simple act of--of dropping it into a bag and bringing it along. That and you in the same evening----" He stretched out a hand toward her, but she was not there. He chuckled a little as he turned and picked up eleven plates, one by one, and replaced them in the bag. "Nine--ten--eleven," he counted. "What luck did _you_ have?" "Dick Herbert, explain to me, please, what you are doing with that gold plate?" There was an imperative command in the voice. The Burglar paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Oh, I'm taking it to have it fixed!" he responded lightly. "Fixed? Taking it this way at this time of the night?" [Illustration: "'It must be several thousands, on dead weight'"] "Sure," and he laughed pleasantly. "You mean you--you--you _stole_ it?" The words came with an effort. "Well, I'd hardly call it that," remarked the Burglar. "That's a harsh word. Still, it's in my possession; it wasn't given to me, and I didn't buy it. You may draw your own conclusions." The bag lay beside him and his left hand caressed it idly, lovingly. For a long time there was silence. "What luck did _you_ have?" he asked again. There was a startled gasp, a gurgle and accusing indignation in the Girl's low, tense voice. "You--you _stole_ it!" "Well, if you prefer it that way--yes." The Burglar was staring steadily into the darkness toward that point whence came the voice, but the night was so dense that not a trace of the Girl was visible. He laughed again. "It seems to me it was lucky I decided to take it at just this time and in these circumstances," he went on tauntingly--"lucky for you, I mean. If I hadn't been there you would have been caught." Again came the startled gasp. "What's the matter?" demanded the Burglar sharply, after another silence. "Why don't you say something?" He was still peering unseeingly into the darkness. The bag of gold plate moved slightly under his hand. He opened his fingers to close them more tightly. It was a mistake. The bag was drawn away; his hand grasped--air. "Stop that game now!" he commanded angrily. "Where are you?" He struggled to his feet. His answer was the crackling of a twig to his right. He started in that direction and brought up with a bump against the automobile. He turned, still groping blindly, and embraced a tree with undignified fervour. To his left he heard another slight noise and ran that way. Again he struck an obstacle. Then he began to say things, expressive things, burning things from the depths of an impassioned soul. The treasure had gone--disappeared into the shadows. The Girl was gone. He called, there was no answer. He drew his revolver fiercely, then reconsidered and flung it down angrily. "And I thought _I_ had nerve!" he declared. It was a compliment. CHAPTER III Extravagantly brilliant the sun popped up out of the east--not an unusual occurrence--and stared unblinkingly down upon a country road. There were the usual twittering birds and dew-spangled trees and nodding wild-flowers; also a dust that was shoe-top deep. The dawny air stirred lazily and rustling leaves sent long, sinuous shadows scampering back and forth. Looking upon it all without enthusiasm or poetic exaltation was a Girl--a pretty Girl--a very pretty Girl. She sat on a stone beside the yellow roadway, a picture of weariness. A rough burlap sack, laden heavily, yet economically as to space, wallowed in the dust beside her. Her hair was tawny gold, and rebellious strands drooped listlessly about her face. A beribboned sombrero lay in her lap, supplementing a certain air of dilapidated bravado, due in part to a short skirt, heavy gloves and boots, a belt with a knife and revolver. A robin, perched impertinently on a stump across the road, examined her at his leisure. She stared back at Signor Redbreast, and for this recognition he warbled a little song. "I've a good mind to cry!" exclaimed the Girl suddenly. Shamed and startled, the robin flew away. A mistiness came into the Girl's blue eyes and lingered there a moment, then her white teeth closed tightly and the glimmer of outraged emotion passed. "Oh," she sighed again, "I'm so tired and hungry and I just know I'll never get anywhere at all!" But despite the expressed conviction she arose and straightened up as if to resume her journey, turning to stare down at the bag. It was an unsightly symbol of blasted hopes, man's perfidy, crushed aspirations and--Heaven only knows what besides. "I've a good mind to leave you right there," she remarked to the bag spitefully. "Perhaps I might hide it." She considered the question. "No, that wouldn't do. I must take it with me--and--and--Oh, Dick! Dick! What in the world was the matter with you, anyway?" Then she sat down again and wept. The robin crept back to look and modestly hid behind a leaf. From this coign of vantage he watched her as she again arose and plodded off through the dust with the bag swinging over one shoulder. At last--there is an at last to everything--a small house appeared from behind a clump of trees. The Girl looked with incredulous eyes. It was really a house. Really! A tiny curl of smoke hovered over the chimney. "Well, thank goodness, I'm somewhere, anyhow," she declared with her first show of enthusiasm. "I can get a cup of coffee or something." She covered the next fifty yards with a new spring in her leaden heels and with a new and firmer grip on the precious bag. Then--she stopped. "Gracious!" and perplexed lines suddenly wrinkled her brow. "If I should go in there with a pistol and a knife they'd think I was a brigand--or--or a thief, and I suppose I am," she added as she stopped and rested the bag on the ground. "At least I have stolen goods in my possession. Now, what shall I say if they ask questions? What am I? They wouldn't believe me if I told them really. Short skirt, boots and gloves: I know! I'm a bicyclist. My wheel broke down, and----" Whereupon she gingerly removed the revolver from her belt and flung it into the underbrush--not at all in the direction she had intended--and the knife followed to keep it company. Having relieved herself of these sinister things, she straightened her hat, pushed back the rebellious hair, yanked at her skirt, and walked bravely up to the little house. An Angel lived there--an Angel in a dizzily beflowered wrapper and a crabbed exterior. She listened to a rapidly constructed and wholly inconsistent story of a bicycle accident, which ended with a plea for a cup of coffee. Silently she proceeded to prepare it. After the pot was bubbling cheerfully and eggs had been put on and biscuits thrust into a stove to be warmed over, the Angel sat down at the table opposite the Girl. "Book agent?" she asked. "Oh, no!" replied the Girl. "Sewing-machines?" "No." There was a pause as the Angel settled and poured a cup of coffee. "Make to order, I s'pose?" "No," the Girl replied uncertainly. "What _do_ you sell?" "Nothing, I--I----" She stopped. "What you got in the bag?" the Angel persisted. "Some--some--just some--stuff," stammered the Girl, and her face suddenly flushed crimson. "What kind of stuff?" The Girl looked into the frankly inquisitive eyes and was overwhelmed by a sense of her own helplessness. Tears started, and one pearly drop ran down her perfect nose and splashed in the coffee. That was the last straw. She leaned forward suddenly with her head on her arms and wept. "Please, please don't ask questions!" she pleaded. "I'm a poor, foolish, helpless, misguided, disillusioned woman!" "Yes'm," said the Angel. She took up the eggs, then came over and put a kindly arm about the Girl's shoulders. "There, there!" she said soothingly. "Don't take on like that! Drink some coffee, and eat a bite, and you'll feel better!" "I have had no sleep at all and no food since yesterday, and I've walked miles and miles and miles," the Girl rushed on feverishly. "It's all because--because----" She stopped suddenly. "Eat something," commanded the Angel. The Girl obeyed. The coffee was weak and muddy and delightful; the biscuits were yellow and lumpy and delicious; the eggs were eggs. The Angel sat opposite and watched the Girl as she ate. "Husband beat you?" she demanded suddenly. The Girl blushed and choked. "No," she hastened to say. "I have no husband." "Well, there ain't no serious trouble in this world till you marry a man that beats you," said the Angel judicially. It was the final word. The Girl didn't answer, and, in view of the fact that she had sufficient data at hand to argue the point, this repression required heroism. Perhaps she will never get credit for it. She finished the breakfast in silence and leaned back with some measure of returning content in her soul. "In a hurry?" asked the Angel. "No, I have no place to go. What is the nearest village or town?" "Watertown, but you'd better stay and rest a while. You look all tuckered out." "Oh, thank you so much," said the Girl gratefully. "But it would be so much trouble for----" The Angel picked up the burlap bag, shook it inquiringly, then started toward the short stairs leading up. "Please, please!" exclaimed the Girl suddenly. "I--I--let me have that, please!" The Angel relinquished the bag without a word. The Girl took it, tremblingly, then, suddenly dropping it, clasped the Angel in her arms and placed upon her unresponsive lips a kiss for which a mere man would have endangered his immortal soul. The Angel wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and went on up the stairs with the Girl following. For a time the Girl lay, with wet eyes, on a clean little bed, thinking. Humiliation, exhaustion, man's perfidy, disillusionment, and the kindness of an utter stranger all occupied her until she fell asleep. Then she was chased by a policeman with automobile lights for eyes, and there was a parade of hard-boiled eggs and yellow, lumpy biscuits. When she awoke the room was quite dark. She sat up a little bewildered at first; then she remembered. After a moment she heard the voice of the Angel, below. It rippled on querulously; then she heard the gruff voice of a man. "Diamond rings?" The Girl sat up in bed and listened intently. Involuntarily her hands were clasped together. Her rings were still safe. The Angel's voice went on for a moment again. "Something in a bag?" inquired the man. Again the Angel spoke. Terror seized upon the Girl; imagination ran riot, and she rose from the bed, trembling. She groped about the dark room noiselessly. Every shadow lent her new fears. Then from below came the sound of heavy footsteps. She listened fearfully. They came on toward the stairs, then paused. A match was struck and the step sounded on the stairs. After a moment there was a knock at the door, a pause, then another knock. Finally the door was pushed open and a huge figure--the figure of a man--appeared, sheltering a candle with one hand. He peered about the room as if perplexed. "Ain't nobody up here," he called gruffly down the stairs. [Illustration] There was a sound of hurrying feet and the Angel entered, her face distorted by the flickering candlelight. "For the land's sakes!" she exclaimed. "Went away without even saying thank you," grumbled the man. He crossed the room and closed a window. "You ain't got no better sense than a chicken," he told the Angel. "Take in anybody that comes." CHAPTER IV If Willie's little brother hadn't had a pain in his tummy this story might have gone by other and devious ways to a different conclusion. But fortunately he did have, so it happened that at precisely 8.47 o'clock of a warm evening Willie was racing madly along a side street of Watertown, drug-store-bound, when he came face to face with a Girl--a pretty Girl--a very pretty Girl. She was carrying a bag that clanked a little at each step. "Oh, little boy!" she called. "Hunh?" and Willie stopped so suddenly that he endangered his equilibrium, although that isn't how he would have said it. "Nice little boy," said the Girl soothingly, and she patted his tousled head while he gnawed a thumb in pained embarrassment. "I'm very tired. I have been walking a great distance. Could you tell me, please, where a lady, unattended, might get a night's lodging somewhere near here?" "Hunh?" gurgled Willie through the thumb. Wearily the Girl repeated it all and at its end Willie giggled. It was the most exasperating incident of a long series of exasperating incidents, and the Girl's grip on the bag tightened a little. Willie never knew how nearly he came to being hammered to death with fourteen pounds of solid gold. "Well?" inquired the Girl at last. "Dunno," said Willie. "Jimmy's got the stomach-ache," he added irrelevantly. "Can't you think of a hotel or boarding-house near by?" the Girl insisted. "Dunno," replied Willie. "I'm going to the drug store for a pair o' gorrick." The Girl bit her lip, and that act probably saved Willie from the dire consequences of his unconscious levity, for after a moment the Girl laughed aloud. "Where is the drug store?" she asked. "'Round the corner. I'm going." "I'll go along, too, if you don't mind," the Girl said, and she turned and walked beside him. Perhaps the drug clerk would be able to illuminate the situation. "I swallyed a penny oncst," Willie confided suddenly. "Too bad!" commented the Girl. "Unh unnh," Willie denied emphatically. "'Cause when I cried, Paw gimme a quarter." He was silent a moment, then: "If I'd 'a' swallyed that, I reckin he'd gimme a dollar. Gee!" This is the optimism that makes the world go round. The philosophy took possession of the Girl and cheered her. When she entered the drug store she walked with a lighter step and there was a trace of a smile about her pretty mouth. A clerk, the only attendant, came forward. "I want a pair o' gorrick," Willie announced. The Girl smiled, and the clerk, paying no attention to the boy, went toward her. "Better attend to him first," she suggested. "It seems urgent." The clerk turned to Willie. "Paregoric?" he inquired. "How much?" "About a quart, I reckin," replied the boy. "Is that enough?" "Quite enough," commented the clerk. He disappeared behind the prescription screen and returned after a moment with a small phial. The boy took it, handed over a coin, and went out, whistling. The Girl looked after him with a little longing in her eyes. "Now, madam?" inquired the clerk suavely. "I only want some information," she replied. "I was out on my bicycle"--she gulped a little--"when it broke down, and I'll have to remain here in town over night, I'm afraid. Can you direct me to a quiet hotel or boarding-house where I might stay?" "Certainly," replied the clerk briskly. "The Stratford, just a block up this street. Explain the circumstances, and it will be all right, I'm sure." The Girl smiled at him again and cheerfully went her way. That small boy had been a leaven to her drooping spirits. She found the Stratford without difficulty and told the usual bicycle lie, with a natural growth of detail and a burning sense of shame. She registered as Elizabeth Carlton and was shown to a modest little room. Her first act was to hide the gold plate in the closet; her second was to take it out and hide it under the bed. Then she sat down on a couch to think. For an hour or more she considered the situation in all its hideous details, planning her desolate future--women like to plan desolate futures--then her eye chanced to fall upon an afternoon paper, which, with glaring headlines, announced the theft of the Randolph gold plate. She read it. It told, with startling detail, things that had and had not happened in connection therewith. This comprehended in all its horror, she promptly arose and hid the bag between the mattress and the springs. Soon after she extinguished the light and retired with little shivers running up and down all over her. She snuggled her head down under the cover. She didn't sleep much--she was still thinking--but when she arose next morning her mind was made up. First she placed the eleven gold plates in a heavy card-board box, then she bound it securely with brown paper and twine and addressed it: "Stuyvesant Randolph, Seven Oaks, via Merton." She had sent express packages before and knew how to proceed, therefore when the necessity of writing a name in the upper left-hand corner appeared--the sender--she wrote in a bold, desperate hand: "John Smith, Watertown." When this was all done to her satisfaction, she tucked the package under one arm, tried to look as if it weren't heavy, and sauntered downstairs with outward self-possession and inward apprehension. She faced the clerk cordially, while a singularly distracting smile curled her lips. "My bill, please?" she asked. "Two dollars, madam," he responded gallantly. [Illustration] "I don't happen to have any money with me," she explained charmingly. "Of course, I had expected to go back on my wheel, but, since it is broken, perhaps you would be willing to take this until I return to the city and can mail a check?" She drew a diamond ring from an aristocratic finger and offered it to the clerk. He blushed furiously, and she reproved him for it with a cold stare. "It's quite irregular," he explained, "but, of course, in the circumstances, it will be all right. It is not necessary for us to keep the ring at all, if you will give us your city address." "I prefer that you keep it," she insisted firmly, "for, besides, I shall have to ask you to let me have fare back to the city--a couple of dollars? Of course it will be all right?" It was half an hour before the clerk fully awoke. He had given the Girl two real dollars and held her ring clasped firmly in one hand. She was gone. She might just as well have taken the hotel along with her so far as any objection from that clerk would have been concerned. Once out of the hotel the Girl hurried on. "Thank goodness, that's over," she exclaimed. For several blocks she walked on. Finally her eye was attracted by a "To Let" sign on a small house--it was No. 410 State Street. She walked in through a gate cut in the solid wall of stone and strolled up to the house. Here she wandered about for a time, incidentally tearing off the "To Let" sign. Then she came down the path toward the street again. Just inside the stone fence she left her express package, after scribbling the name of the street on it with a pencil. A dollar bill lay on top. She hurried out and along a block or more to a small grocery. "Will you please 'phone to the express company and have them send a wagon to No. 410 State Street for a package?" she asked sweetly of a heavy-voiced grocer. "Certainly, ma'am," he responded with alacrity. She paused until he had done as she requested, then dropped into a restaurant for a cup of coffee. She lingered there for a long time, and then went out to spend a greater part of the day wandering up and down State Street. At last an express wagon drove up, the driver went in and returned after a little while with the package. [Illustration] "And, thank goodness, that's off my hands!" sighed the Girl. "Now I'm going home." * * * * * Late that evening, Saturday, Miss Dollie Meredith returned to the home of the Greytons and was clasped to the motherly bosom of Mrs. Greyton, where she wept unreservedly. [Illustration: "A dollar bill lay on top"] CHAPTER V It was late Sunday afternoon. Hutchinson Hatch did not run lightly up the steps of the Greyton home and toss his cigar away as he rang the bell. He did go up the steps, but it was reluctantly, dragging one foot after the other, this being an indication rather of his mental condition than of physical weariness. He did not throw away his cigar as he rang the bell because he wasn't smoking--but he did ring the bell. The maid whom he had seen on his previous visit opened the door. "Is Mrs. Greyton in?" he asked with a nod of recognition. "No, sir." "Mr. Greyton?" "No, sir." "Did Mr. Meredith arrive from Baltimore?" "Yes, sir. Last midnight." "Ah! Is _he_ in?" "No, sir." The reporter's disappointment showed clearly in his face. "I don't suppose you've heard anything further from Miss Meredith?" he ventured hopelessly. "She's upstairs, sir." Anyone who has ever stepped on a tack knows just how Hatch felt. He didn't stand on the order of being invited in--he went in. Being in, he extracted a plain calling-card from his pocketbook with twitching fingers and handed it to the waiting maid. "When did she return?" he asked. "Last night, about nine, sir." "Where has she been?" "I don't know, sir." "Kindly hand her my card and explain to her that it is imperative that I see her for a few minutes," the reporter went on. "Impress upon her the absolute necessity of this. By the way, I suppose you know where I came from, eh?" "Police headquarters, yes, sir." Hatch tried to look like a detective, but a gleam of intelligence in his face almost betrayed him. "You might intimate as much to Miss Meredith," he instructed the maid calmly. The maid disappeared. Hatch went in and sat down in the reception-room, and said "Whew!" several times. "The gold plate returned to Randolph last night by express," he mused, "and she returned also, last night. Now what does that mean?" After a minute or so the maid reappeared to state that Miss Meredith would see him. Hatch received the message gravely and beckoned mysteriously as he sought for a bill in his pocketbook. "Do you have any idea where Miss Meredith was?" "No, sir. She didn't even tell Mrs. Greyton or her father." "What was her appearance?" "She seemed very tired, sir, and hungry. She still wore the masked ball costume." The bill changed hands and Hatch was left alone again. There was a long wait, then a rustle of skirts, a light step, and Miss Dollie Meredith entered. She was nervous, it is true, and pallid, but there was a suggestion of defiance as well as determination on her pretty mouth. Hatch stared at her in frank admiration for a moment, then, with an effort, proceeded to business. "I presume, Miss Meredith," he said solemnly, "that the maid informed you of my identity?" "Yes," replied Dollie weakly. "She said you were a detective." "Ah!" exclaimed the reporter meaningly, "then we understand each other. Now, Miss Meredith, will you tell me, please, just where you have been?" "No." The answer was so prompt and so emphatic that Hatch was a little disconcerted. He cleared his throat and started over again. "Will you inform me, then, in the interest of justice, where you were on the evening of the Randolph ball?" An ominous threat lay behind the words, Hatch hoped she believed. "I will not." "Why did you disappear?" "I will not tell you." [Illustration: "There was a suggestion of defiance as well as determination on her pretty mouth"] Hatch paused to readjust himself. He was going at things backward. When next he spoke his tone had lost the official tang--he talked like a human being. "May I ask if you happen to know Richard Herbert?" The pallor of the girl's face was relieved by a delicious sweep of colour. "I will not tell you," she answered. "And if I say that Mr. Herbert happens to be a friend of mine?" "Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Two distracting blue eyes were staring him out of countenance; two scarlet lips were drawn tightly together in reproof of a man who boasted such a friendship; two cheeks flamed with indignation that he should have mentioned the name. Hatch floundered for a moment, then cleared his throat and took a fresh start. "Will you deny that you saw Richard Herbert on the evening of the masked ball?" "I will not." "Will you admit that you saw him?" "I will not." "Do you know that he was wounded?" "Certainly." Now, Hatch had always held a vague theory that the easiest way to make a secret known was to intrust it to a woman. At this point he revised his draw, threw his hand in the pack, and asked for a new deal. "Miss Meredith," he said soothingly after a pause, "will you admit or deny that you ever heard of the Randolph robbery?" "I will not," she began, then: "Certainly I know of it." "You know that a man and a woman are accused of and sought for the theft?" "Yes, I know that." "You will admit that you know the man was in Burglar's garb, and that the woman was dressed in a Western costume?" "The newspapers say that, yes," she replied sweetly. "You know, too, that Richard Herbert went to that ball in Burglar's garb and that you went there dressed as a Western girl?" The reporter's tone was strictly professional now. Dollie stared into the stern face of her interrogator and her courage oozed away. The colour left her face and she wept violently. "I beg your pardon," Hatch expostulated. "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean it just that way, but----" He stopped helplessly and stared at this wonderful woman with the red hair. Of all things in the world tears were quite the most disconcerting. [Illustration] "I beg your pardon," he repeated awkwardly. Dollie looked up with tear-stained, pleading eyes, then arose and placed both her hands on Hatch's arm. It was a pitiful, helpless sort of a gesture; Hatch shuddered with sheer delight. "I don't know how you found out about it," she said tremulously, "but, if you've come to arrest me, I'm ready to go with you." "Arrest you?" gasped the reporter. "Certainly. I'll go and be locked up. That's what they do, isn't it?" she questioned innocently. The reporter stared. "I wouldn't arrest you for a million dollars!" he stammered in dire confusion. "It wasn't quite that. It was----" And five minutes later Hutchinson Hatch found himself wandering aimlessly up and down the sidewalk. CHAPTER VI Dick Herbert lay stretched lazily on a couch in his room with hands pressed to his eyes. He had just read the Sunday newspapers announcing the mysterious return of the Randolph plate, and naturally he had a headache. Somewhere in a remote recess of his brain mental pyrotechnics were at play; a sort of intellectual pinwheel spouted senseless ideas and suggestions of senseless ideas. The late afternoon shaded off into twilight, twilight into dusk, dusk into darkness, and still he lay motionless. After a while, from below, he heard the tinkle of a bell and Blair entered with light tread: "Beg pardon, sir, are you asleep?" "Who is it, Blair?" "Mr. Hatch, sir." "Let him come up." Dick arose, snapped on the electric lights, and stood blinkingly in the sudden glare. When Hatch entered they faced each other silently for a moment. There was that in the reporter's eyes that interested Dick immeasurably; there was that in Dick's eyes that Hatch was trying vainly to fathom. Dick relieved a certain vague tension by extending his left hand. Hatch shook it cordially. "Well?" Dick inquired. Hatch dropped into a chair and twirled his hat. "Heard the news?" he asked. "The return of the gold plate, yes," and Dick passed a hand across his fevered brow. "It makes me dizzy." "Heard anything from Miss Meredith?" "No. Why?" "She returned to the Greytons last night." "Returned to the----" and Dick started up suddenly. "Well, there's no reason why she shouldn't have," he added. "Do you happen to know where she was?" The reporter shook his head. "I don't know anything," he said wearily, "except----" he paused. Dick paced back and forth across the room several times with one hand pressed to his forehead. Suddenly he turned on his visitor. "Except what?" he demanded. "Except that Miss Meredith, by action and word, has convinced me that she either had a hand in the disappearance of the Randolph plate or else knows who was the cause of its disappearance." Dick glared at him savagely. "You know she didn't take the plate?" he demanded. "Certainly," replied the reporter. "That's what makes it all the more astonishing. I talked to her this afternoon, and when I finished she seemed to think I had come to arrest her, and she wanted to go to jail. I nearly fainted." Dick glared incredulously, then resumed his nervous pacing. Suddenly he stopped. "Did she mention my name?" "I mentioned it. She wouldn't admit even that she knew you." There was a pause. "I don't blame her," Dick remarked enigmatically. "She must think me a cad." Another pause. "Well, what about it all, anyhow?" Dick went on finally. "The plate has been returned, therefore the matter is at an end." "Now look here, Dick," said Hatch. "I want to say something, and don't go crazy, please, until I finish. I know an awful lot about this affair--things the police never will know. I haven't printed anything much for obvious reasons." Dick looked at him apprehensively. "Go on," he urged. "I could print things I know," the reporter resumed; "swear out a warrant for you in connection with the gold plate affair and have you arrested and convicted on your own statements, supplemented by those of Miss Meredith. Yet, remember, please, neither your name nor hers has been mentioned as yet." Dick took it calmly; he only stared. "Do you believe that I stole the plate?" he asked. "Certainly I do not," replied Hatch, "but I can prove that you _did_; prove it to the satisfaction of any jury in the world, and no denial of yours would have any effect." "Well?" asked Dick, after a moment. "Further, I can, on information in my possession, swear out a warrant for Miss Meredith, prove she was in the automobile, and convict her as your accomplice. Now that's a silly state of affairs, isn't it?" "But, man, you can't believe that she had anything to do with it! She's--she's not that kind." "I could take oath that she didn't have anything to do with it, but all the same I can prove that she did," replied Hatch. "Now what I am getting at is this: if the police should happen to find out what I know they would send you up--both of you." "Well, you are decent about it, old man, and I appreciate it," said Dick warmly. "But what can we do?" "It behoves us--Miss Meredith and you and myself--to get the true facts in the case all together before you get pinched," said the reporter judicially. "Suppose now, just suppose, that we three get together and tell each other the truth for a change, the whole truth, and see what will happen?" "If I should tell you the truth," said Dick dispassionately, "it would bring everlasting disgrace on Miss Meredith, and I'd be a beast for doing it; if she told you the truth she would unquestionably send me to prison for theft." "But here----" Hatch expostulated. "Just a minute!" Dick disappeared into another room, leaving the reporter to chew on what he had, then returned in a little while, dressed for the street. "Now, Hatch," he said, "I'm going to try to get to Miss Meredith, but I don't believe she'll see me. If she will, I may be able to explain several things that will clear up this affair in _your_ mind, at any rate. If I don't see her---- By the way, did her father arrive from Baltimore?" "Yes." "Good!" exclaimed Dick. "I'll see him, too--make a show-down of it, and when it's all over I'll let you know what happened." [Illustration] Hatch went back to his shop and threatened to kick the office-boy into the waste-basket. At just about that moment Mr. Meredith, in the Greyton home, was reading a card on which appeared the name, "Mr. Richard Hamilton Herbert." Having read it, he snorted his indignation and went into the reception-room. Dick arose to greet him and offered a hand, which was promptly declined. "I'd like to ask you, Mr. Meredith," Dick began with a certain steely coldness in his manner, "just why you object to my attention to your daughter, Dorothy?" "You know well enough!" raged the old man. "It is because of the trouble I had in Harvard with your son, Harry. Well and good, but is that all? Is that to stand forever?" "You proved then that you were not a gentleman," declared the old man savagely. "You're a puppy, sir." [Illustration: "Mr. Meredith ... was reading a card on which appeared the name 'Mr. Richard Hamilton Herbert'"] "If you didn't happen to be the father of the girl I'm in love with I'd poke you in the nose," Dick replied, almost cheerfully. "Where is your son now? Is there no way I can place myself right in your eyes?" "No!" Mr. Meredith thundered. "An apology would only be a confession of your dishonour!" Dick was nearly choking, but managed to keep his voice down. "Does your daughter know anything of that affair?" "Certainly not." "Where is your son?" "None of your business, sir!" "I don't suppose there's any doubt in your mind of my affection for your daughter?" "I suppose you do admire her," snapped the old man. "You can't help that, I suppose. No one can," he added naïvely. "And I suppose you know that she loves me, in spite of your objections?" went on the young man. "Bah! Bah!" "And that you are breaking her heart by your mutton-headed objection to me?" "You--you----" sputtered Mr. Meredith. Dick was still calm. "May I see Miss Meredith for a few minutes?" he went on. "She won't see you, sir," stormed the irate parent. "She told me last night that she would never consent to see you again." "Will you give me your permission to see her here and now, if she will consent?" Dick insisted steadily. "She won't see you, I say." "May I send a card to her?" "She won't see you, sir," repeated Mr. Meredith doggedly. Dick stepped out into the hall and beckoned to the maid. "Please take my card to Miss Meredith," he directed. The maid accepted the white square, with a little uplifting of her brows, and went up the stairs. Miss Meredith received it languidly, read it, then sat up indignantly. "Dick Herbert!" she exclaimed incredulously. "How dare he come here? It's the most audacious thing I ever heard of! Certainly I will not see him again in any circumstances." She arose and glared defiantly at the demure maid. "Tell Mr. Herbert," she said emphatically, "tell him--that I'll be right down." CHAPTER VII Mr. Meredith had stamped out of the room angrily, and Dick Herbert was alone when Dollie, in regal indignation, swept in. The general slant of her ruddy head radiated defiance, and a most depressing chilliness lay in her blue eyes. Her lips formed a scarlet line, and there was a how-dare-you-sir tilt to nose and chin. Dick started up quickly at her appearance. "Dollie!" he exclaimed eagerly. "Mr. Herbert," she responded coldly. She sat down primly on the extreme edge of a chair which yawned to embrace her. "What is it, please?" Dick was a singularly audacious sort of person, but her manner froze him into sudden austerity. He regarded her steadily for a moment. "I have come to explain why----" Miss Dollie Meredith sniffed. "I have come to explain," he went on, "why I did not meet you at the Randolph masked ball, as we had planned." "Why you did _not_ meet me?" inquired Dollie coldly, with a little surprised movement of her arched brows. "Why you did _not_ meet me?" she repeated. "I shall have to ask you to believe that, in the circumstances, it was absolutely impossible," Dick continued, preferring not to notice the singular emphasis of her words. "Something occurred early that evening which--which left me no choice in the matter. I can readily understand your indignation and humiliation at my failure to appear, and I had no way of reaching you that evening or since. News of your return last night only reached me an hour ago. I knew you had disappeared." Dollie's blue eyes were opened to the widest and her lips parted a little in astonishment. For a moment she sat thus, staring at the young man, then she sank back into her chair with a little gasp. "May I inquire," she asked, after she recovered her breath, "the cause of this--this levity?" "Dollie, dear, I am perfectly serious," Dick assured her earnestly. "I am trying to make it plain to you, that's all." "Why you did _not_ meet me?" Dollie repeated again. "Why you _did_ meet me! And that's--that's what's the matter with everything!" Whatever surprise or other emotion Dick might have felt was admirably repressed. "I thought perhaps there was some mistake somewhere," he said at last. "Now, Dollie, listen to me. No, wait a minute please! I did not go to the Randolph ball. You did. You eloped from that ball, as you and I had planned, in an automobile, but not with me. You went with some other man--the man who really stole the gold plate." Dollie opened her mouth to exclaim, then shut it suddenly. "Now just a moment, please," pleaded Dick. "You spoke to some other man under the impression that you were speaking to me. For a reason which does not appear now, he fell in with your plans. Therefore, you ran away with him--in the automobile which carried the gold plate. What happened after that I cannot even surmise. I only know that you are the mysterious woman who disappeared with the Burglar." Dollie gasped and nearly choked with her emotions. A flame of scarlet leaped into her face and the glare of the blue eyes was pitiless. "Mr. Herbert," she said deliberately at last, "I don't know whether you think I am a fool or only a child. I know that no rational human being can accept that as true. I know I left Seven Oaks with you in the auto; I know you are the man who stole the gold plate; I know how you received the shot in your right shoulder; I know how you afterward fainted from loss of blood. I know how I bound up your wound and--and--I know a lot of things else!" The sudden rush of words left her breathless for an instant. Dick listened quietly. He started to say something--to expostulate--but she got a fresh start and hurried on: "I recognised you in that silly disguise by the cleft in your chin. I called you Dick and you answered me. I asked if you had received the little casket and you answered yes. I left the ballroom as you directed and climbed into the automobile. I know that horrid ride we had, and how I took the gold plate in the bag and walked--walked through the night until I was exhausted. I know it all--how I lied and connived, and told silly stories--but I did it all to save you from yourself, and now you dare face me with a denial!" Dollie suddenly burst into tears. Dick now attempted no further denial. There was no anger in his face--only a deeply troubled expression. He arose and walked over to the window, where he stood staring out. "I know it all," Dollie repeated gurglingly--"all, except what possible idea you had in stealing the miserable, wretched old plate, anyway!" There was a pause and Dollie peered through teary fingers. "How--how long," she asked, "have you been a--a--a--kleptomaniac?" Dick shrugged his sturdy shoulders a little impatiently. "Did your father ever happen to tell you _why_ he objects to my attentions to you?" he asked. "No, but I know now." And there was a new burst of tears. "It's because--because you are a--a--you take things." "You will not believe what I tell you?" "How can I when I helped you run away with the horrid stuff?" "If I pledge you my word of honour that I told you the truth?" "I can't believe it, I can't!" wailed Dollie desolately. "No one could believe it. I never suspected--never dreamed--of the possibility of such a thing even when you lay wounded out there in the dark woods. If I had, I should certainly have never--have never--kissed you." Dick wheeled suddenly. "Kissed me?" he exclaimed. "Yes, you horrid thing!" sobbed Dollie. "If there had previously been the slightest doubt in my mind as to your identity, that would have convinced me that it was you, because--because--just because! And besides, if it wasn't you I kissed, you ought to have told me!" Dollie leaned forward suddenly on the arm of the chair with her face hidden in her hands. Dick crossed the room softly toward her and laid a hand caressingly about her shoulders. She shook it off angrily. "How dare you, sir?" she blazed. "Dollie, don't you love me?" he pleaded. "No!" was the prompt reply. "But you did love me--once?" "Why--yes, but I--I----" "And couldn't you ever love me again?" "I--I don't ever want to again." "But couldn't you?" "If you had only told me the truth, instead of making such a silly denial," she blubbered. "I don't know why you took the plate unless--unless it is because you--you couldn't help it. But you didn't tell me the truth." Dick stared down at the ruddy head moodily for a moment. Then his manner changed and he dropped on his knees beside her. "Suppose," he whispered, "suppose I should confess that I did take it?" Dollie looked up suddenly with a new horror in her face. "Oh, you _did_ do it then?" she demanded. This was worse than ever! "Suppose I should confess that I did?" "Oh, Dick!" she sobbed. And her arms went suddenly around his neck. "You are breaking my heart. Why? Why?" "Would you be satisfied?" he insisted. "What could have caused you to do such a thing?" The love-light glimmered again in her blue eyes; the red lips trembled. "Suppose it had been just a freak of mine, and I had intended to--to return the stuff, as has been done?" he went on. Dollie stared deeply into the eyes upturned to hers. "Silly boy," she said. Then she kissed him. "But you must never, never do it again." "I never will," he promised solemnly. Five minutes later Dick was leaving the house, when he met Mr. Meredith in the hall. [Illustration: "'Silly boy,' she said"] "I'm going to marry your daughter," he said quite calmly. Mr. Meredith raved at him as he went down the steps. [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII Alone in her room, with the key turned in the lock, Miss Dollie Meredith had a perfectly delightful time. She wept and laughed and sobbed and shuddered; she was pensive and doleful and happy and melancholy; she dreamed dreams of the future, past and present; she sang foolish little ecstatic songs--just a few words of each--and cried again copiously. Her father had sent her to her room with a stern reprimand, and she giggled joyously as she remembered it. "After all, it wasn't anything," she assured herself. "It was silly for him to--to take the stuff, of course, but it's back now, and he told me the truth, and he intended to return it, anyway." In her present mood she would have justified anything. "And he's not a thief or anything. I don't suppose father will ever give his consent, so, after all, we'll have to elope, and that will be--perfectly delightful. Papa will go on dreadfully and then he'll be all right." After a while Dollie snuggled down in the sheets and lay quite still in the dark until sleep overtook her. Silence reigned in the house. It was about two o'clock in the morning when she sat up suddenly in bed with startled eyes. She had heard something--or rather in her sleep she had received the impression of hearing something. She listened intently as she peered about. Finally she _did_ hear something--something tap sharply on the window once. Then came silence again. A frightened chill ran all the way down to Dollie's curling pink toes. There was a pause, and then again came the sharp click on the window, whereupon Dollie pattered out of bed in her bare feet and ran to the window, which was open a few inches. With the greatest caution she peered out. Vaguely skulking in the shadows below she made out the figure of a man. As she looked it seemed to draw up into a knot, then straighten out quickly. Involuntarily she dodged. There came another sharp click at the window. The man below was tossing pebbles against the pane with the obvious purpose of attracting her attention. "Dick, is that you?" she called cautiously. "Sh-h-h-h!" came the answer. "Here's a note for you. Open the window so I may throw it in." "Is it really and truly you?" Dollie insisted. "Yes," came the hurried, whispered answer. "Quick, someone is coming!" Dollie threw the sash up and stepped back. A whirling, white object came through and fell noiselessly on the carpet. Dollie seized upon it eagerly and ran to the window again. Below she saw the retreating figure of a man. Other footsteps materialised in a bulky policeman, who strolled by seeking, perhaps, a quiet spot for a nap. [Illustration: "She opened the note eagerly and sat down upon the floor to read it"] Shivering with excitement, Dollie closed the window and pulled down the shade, after which she lighted the gas. She opened the note eagerly and sat down upon the floor to read it. Now a large part of this note was extraneous verbiage of a superlative emotional nature--its vital importance was an outline of a new plan of elopement, to take place on Wednesday in time for them to catch a European-bound steamer at half-past two in the afternoon. Dollie read and reread the crumpled sheet many times, and when finally its wording had been indelibly fixed in her mind she wasted an unbelievable number of kisses on it. Of course this was sheer extravagance, but--girls are wonderful creatures. "He's the dearest thing in the world!" she declared at last. She burned the note reluctantly and carefully disposed of the ashes by throwing them out of the window, after which she returned to her bed. On the following morning, Monday, father glared at daughter sternly as she demurely entered the breakfast-room. He was seeking to read that which no man has ever been able to read--a woman's face. Dollie smiled upon him charmingly. After breakfast father and daughter had a little talk in a sunny corner of the library. "I have planned for us to return to Baltimore on next Thursday," he informed her. "Oh, isn't that delightful?" beamed Dollie. "In view of everything and your broken promise to me--the promise not to see Herbert again--I think it wisest," he continued. "Perhaps it is," she mused. "Why did you see him?" he demanded. "I consented to see him only to bid him good-by," replied Dollie demurely, "and to make perfectly clear to him my position in this matter." Oh, woman! Perfidious, insincere, loyal, charming woman! All the tangled skeins of life are the work of your dainty fingers. All the sins and sorrows are your doing! Mr. Meredith rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You may take it as my wish--my order even," he said as he cleared his throat--for giving orders to Dollie was a dangerous experiment, "that you must not attempt to communicate in any way with Mr. Herbert again--by letter or otherwise." "Yes, papa." Mr. Meredith was somewhat surprised at the ease with which he got away with this. Had he been blessed with a little more wisdom in the ways of women he would have been suspicious. "You really do not love him, anyway," he ventured at last. "It was only a girlish infatuation." "I told him yesterday just what I thought of him," she replied truthfully enough. And thus the interview ended. It was about noon that day when Hutchinson Hatch called on Dick Herbert. "Well, what did you find out?" he inquired. "Really, old man," said Dick kindly, "I have decided that there is nothing I can say to you about the matter. It's a private affair, after all." "Yes, I know that and you know that, but the police don't know it," commented the reporter grimly. "The police!" Dick smiled. "Did you see her?" Hatch asked. "Yes, I saw her--and her father, too." Hatch saw the one door by which he had hoped to solve the riddle closing on him. "Was Miss Meredith the girl in the automobile?" he asked bluntly. "Really, I won't answer that." "Are you the man who stole the gold plate?" "I won't answer that, either," replied Dick smilingly. "Now, look here, Hatch, you're a good fellow. I like you. It is your business to find out things, but, in this particular affair, I'm going to make it my business to keep you from finding out things. I'll risk the police end of it." He went over and shook hands with the reporter cordially. "Believe me, if I told you the absolute truth--all of it--you couldn't print it unless--unless I was arrested, and I don't intend that that shall happen." Hatch went away. That night the Randolph gold plate was stolen for the second time. Thirty-six hours later Detective Mallory arrested Richard Herbert with the stolen plate in his possession. Dick burst out laughing when the detective walked in on him. [Illustration] PART III THE THINKING MACHINE CHAPTER I Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, Ph. D., LL. D., F. R. S., M. D., etc., etc., was the Court of Last Appeal in the sciences. He was five feet two inches tall, weighed 107 pounds, that being slightly above normal, and wore a number eight hat. Bushy, yellow hair straggled down about his ears and partially framed a clean-shaven, wizened face in which were combined the paradoxical qualities of extreme aggressiveness and childish petulance. The mouth drooped a little at the corners, being otherwise a straight line; the eyes were mere slits of blue, squinting eternally through thick spectacles. His brow rose straight up, domelike, majestic even, and added a whimsical grotesqueness to his appearance. The Professor's idea of light literature, for rare moments of recreation, was page after page of encyclopædic discussion on "ologies" and "isms" with lots of figures in 'em. Sometimes he wrote these discussions himself, and frequently held them up to annihilation. His usual speaking tone was one of deep annoyance, and he had an unwavering glare that went straight through one. He was the son of the son of the son of an eminent German scientist, the logical production of a house that had borne a distinguished name in the sciences for generations. Thirty-five of his fifty years had been devoted to logic, study, analysis of cause and effect, mental, material, and psychological. By his personal efforts he had mercilessly flattened out and readjusted at least two of the exact sciences and had added immeasurably to the world's sum of knowledge in others. Once he had held the chair of philosophy in a great university, but casually one day he promulgated a thesis that knocked the faculty's eye out, and he was invited to vacate. It was a dozen years later that that university had openly resorted to influence and diplomacy to induce him to accept its LL. D. For years foreign and American institutions, educational, scientific, and otherwise, crowded degrees upon him. He didn't care. He started fires with the elaborately formal notifications of these unsought honours and turned again to his work in the small laboratory which was a part of his modest home. There he lived, practically a recluse, his simple wants being attended to by one aged servant, Martha. This, then, was The Thinking Machine. This last title, The Thinking Machine, perhaps more expressive of the real man than a yard of honorary initials, was coined by Hutchinson Hatch at the time of the scientist's defeat of a chess champion after a single morning's instruction in the game. The Thinking Machine had asserted that logic was inevitable, and that game had proven his assertion. Afterward there had grown up a strange sort of friendship between the crabbed scientist and the reporter. Hatch, to the scientist, represented the great, whirling outside world; to the reporter the scientist was merely a brain--a marvellously keen, penetrating, infallible guide through material muddles far removed from the delicately precise labours of the laboratory. Now The Thinking Machine sat in a huge chair in his reception-room with long, slender fingers pressed tip to tip and squint eyes turned upward. Hatch was talking, had been talking for more than an hour with infrequent interruptions. In that time he had laid bare the facts as he and the police knew them from the incidents of the masked ball at Seven Oaks to the return of Dollie Meredith. "Now, Mr. Hatch," asked The Thinking Machine, "just what is known of this second theft of the gold plate?" "It's simple enough," explained the reporter. "It was plain burglary. Some person entered the Randolph house on Monday night by cutting out a pane of glass and unfastening a window-latch. Whoever it was took the plate and escaped. That's all anyone knows of it." "Left no clew, of course?" "No, so far as has been found." "I presume that, on its return by express, Mr. Randolph ordered the plate placed in the small room as before?" "Yes." "He's a fool." "Yes." "Please go on." "Now the police absolutely decline to say as yet just what evidence they have against Herbert beyond the finding of the plate in his possession," the reporter resumed, "though, of course, that's enough and to spare. They will not say, either, how they first came to connect him with the affair. Detective Mallory doesn't----" "When and where was Mr. Herbert arrested?" "Yesterday, Tuesday, afternoon in his rooms. Fourteen pieces of the gold plate were on the table." The Thinking Machine dropped his eyes a moment to squint at the reporter. "Only eleven pieces of the plate were first stolen, you said?" "Only eleven, yes." "And I think you said two shots were fired at the thief?" "Yes." "Who fired them, please?" "One of the detectives--Cunningham, I think." "It was a detective--you know that?" "Yes, I know that." "Yes, yes. Please go on." "The plate was all spread out--there was no attempt to conceal it," Hatch resumed. "There was a box on the floor and Herbert was about to pack the stuff in it when Detective Mallory and two of his men entered. Herbert's servant, Blair, was away from the house at the time. His people are up in Nova Scotia, so he was alone." "Nothing but the gold plate was found?" "Oh, yes!" exclaimed the reporter. "There was a lot of jewelry in a case and fifteen or twenty odd pieces--fifty thousand dollars' worth of stuff, at least. The police took it to find the owners." "Dear me! Dear me!" exclaimed The Thinking Machine. "Why didn't you mention the jewelry at first? Wait a minute." Hatch was silent while the scientist continued to squint at the ceiling. He wriggled in his chair uncomfortably and smoked a couple of cigarettes before The Thinking Machine turned to him and nodded. "That's all I know," said Hatch. "Did Mr. Herbert say anything when arrested?" "No, he only laughed. I don't know why. I don't imagine it would have been at all funny to me." "Has he said anything since?" "No, nothing to me or anybody else. He was arraigned at a preliminary hearing, pleaded not guilty, and was released on twenty thousand dollars bail. Some of his rich friends furnished it." "Did he give any reason for his refusal to say anything?" insisted The Thinking Machine testily. "He remarked to me that he wouldn't say anything, because, even if he told the truth, no one would believe him." "If it should have been a protestation of innocence I'm afraid nobody _would_ have believed him," commented the scientist enigmatically. He was silent for several minutes. "It could have been a brother, of course," he mused. "A brother?" asked Hatch quickly. "Whose brother? What brother?" "As I understand it," the scientist went on, not heeding the question, "you did not believe Herbert guilty of the first theft?" "Why, I couldn't," Hatch protested. "I couldn't," he repeated. "Why?" "Well, because--because he's not that sort of man," explained the reporter. "I've known him for years, personally and by reputation." "Was he a particular friend of yours in college?" "No, not an intimate, but he was in my class--and he's a whacking, jam-up, ace-high football player." That squared everything. "Do you now believe him guilty?" insisted the scientist. "I can't believe anything else--and yet I'd stake my life on his honesty." "And Miss Meredith?" The reporter was reaching the explosive point. He had seen and talked to Miss Meredith, you know. "It's perfectly asinine to suppose that _she_ had anything to do with either theft, don't you think?" The Thinking Machine was silent on that point. [Illustration] "Well, Mr. Hatch," he said finally, "the problem comes down to this: Did a man, and perhaps a woman, who are circumstantially proven guilty of stealing the gold plate, _actually_ steal it? We have the stained cushion of the automobile in which the thieves escaped to indicate that one of them was wounded; we have Mr. Herbert with an injured right shoulder--a hurt received that night on his own statement, though he won't say how. We have, then, the second theft and the finding of the stolen property in his possession along with another lot of stolen stuff--jewels. It is apparently a settled case now without going further." "But----" Hatch started to protest. "But suppose we do go a little further," The Thinking Machine went on. "I can prove definitely, conclusively, and finally by settling only two points whether or not Mr. Herbert was wounded while in the automobile. If he was wounded while in that automobile, he was the first thief; if not, he wasn't. If he was the first thief, he was probably the second, but even if he were not the first thief, there is, of course, a possibility that he was the second." Hatch was listening with mouth open. "Suppose we begin now," continued The Thinking Machine, "by finding out the name of the physician who treated Mr. Herbert's wound last Thursday night. Mr. Herbert may have a reason for keeping the identity of this physician secret, but, perhaps--wait a minute," and the scientist disappeared into the next room. He was gone for five minutes. "See if the physician who treated the wound wasn't Dr. Clarence Walpole." The reporter blinked a little. "Right," he said. "What next?" "Ask him something about the nature of the wound and all the usual questions." Hatch nodded. "Then," resumed The Thinking Machine casually, "bring me some of Mr. Herbert's blood." The reporter blinked a good deal, and gulped twice. "How much?" he inquired briskly. "A single drop on a small piece of glass will do very nicely," replied the scientist. CHAPTER II The Supreme Police Intelligence of the Metropolitan District was doing some heavy thinking, which, modestly enough, bore generally on his own dazzling perspicacity. Just at the moment he couldn't recall any detector of crime whose lustre in any way dimmed his own, or whose mere shadow, even, had a right to fall on the same earth as his; and this lapse of memory so stimulated his admiration for the subject of his thoughts that he lighted a fresh cigar and put his feet in the middle of the desk. He sat thus when The Thinking Machine called. The Supreme Intelligence--Mr. Mallory--knew Professor Van Dusen well, and, though he received his visitor graciously, he showed no difficulty in restraining any undue outburst of enthusiasm. Instead, the same admirable self-control which prevented him from outwardly evidencing his pleasure prompted him to square back in his chair with a touch of patronising aggressiveness in his manner. "Ah, Professor," was his noncommittal greeting. "Good-evening, Mr. Mallory," responded the scientist in the thin, irritated voice which always set Mr. Mallory's nerves a-jangle. "I don't suppose you would tell me by what steps you were led to arrest Mr. Herbert?" "I would not," declared Mr. Mallory promptly. "No, nor would you inform me of the nature of the evidence against him in addition to the jewels and plate found in his possession?" "I would not," replied Mr. Mallory again. "No, I thought perhaps you would not," remarked The Thinking Machine. "I understand, by the way, that one of your men took a leather cushion from the automobile in which the thieves escaped on the night of the ball?" "Well, what of it?" demanded the detective. "I merely wanted to inquire if it would be permissible for me to see that cushion?" Detective Mallory glared at him suspiciously, then slowly his heavy face relaxed, and he laughed as he arose and produced the cushion. "If you're trying to make any mystery of this cushion, you're in bad," he informed the scientist. "We know the owner of the automobile in which Herbert and the Girl escaped. The cushion means nothing." The Thinking Machine examined the heavy leather carefully and paid a great deal of attention to the crusted stains which it bore. He picked at one of the brown spots with his penknife and it flaked off in his hand. "Herbert was caught with the goods on," declared the detective, and he thumped the desk with his lusty fist. "We've got the right man." "Yes," admitted The Thinking Machine, "it begins to look very much as if you _did_ have the right man--for once." Detective Mallory snorted. "Would you mind telling me if any of the jewelry you found in Mr. Herbert's possession has been identified?" "Sure thing," replied the detective. "That's where I've got Herbert good. Four people who lost jewelry at the masked ball have appeared and claimed pieces of the stuff." For an instant a slightly perplexed wrinkle appeared in the brow of The Thinking Machine, and as quickly it passed. "Of course, of course," he mused. "It's the biggest haul of stolen goods the police of this city have made for many years," the detective volunteered complacently. "And, if I'm not wrong, there's more of it coming--no man knows how much more. Why, Herbert must have been operating for years, and he got away with it, of course, by the gentlemanly exterior, the polish, and all that. I consider his capture the most important that has happened since I have been connected with the police." "Indeed?" inquired the scientist thoughtfully. He was still gazing at the cushion. "And the most important development of all is to come," Detective Mallory rattled on. "That will be the real sensation, and make the arrest of Herbert seem purely incidental. It now looks as if there would be another arrest of a--of a person who is so high socially, and all that----" "Yes," interrupted The Thinking Machine, "but do you think it would be wise to arrest her now?" "Her?" demanded Detective Mallory. "What do you know of any woman?" "You were speaking of Miss Dorothy Meredith, weren't you?" inquired The Thinking Machine blandly. "Well, I merely asked if you thought it would be wise for your men to go so far as to arrest her." The detective bit his cigar in two in obvious perturbation. "How--how--did you happen to know her name?" he demanded. "Oh, Mr. Hatch mentioned it to me," replied the scientist. "He has known of her connection with the case for several days, as well as Herbert's, and has talked to them both, I think." The Supreme Intelligence was nearly apoplectic. "If Hatch knew it why didn't he tell me?" he thundered. "Really, I don't know," responded the scientist. "Perhaps," he added curtly, "he may have had some absurd notion that you would find it out for yourself. He has strange ideas like that sometimes." And when Detective Mallory had fully recovered The Thinking Machine was gone. Meanwhile Hatch had seen and questioned Dr. Clarence Walpole in the latter's office, only a stone's throw from Dick Herbert's home. Had Doctor Walpole recently dressed a wound for Mr. Herbert? Doctor Walpole had. A wound caused by a pistol-bullet? Yes. "When was it, please?" asked Hatch. "Only a few nights ago." "Thursday night, perhaps?" Doctor Walpole consulted a desk-diary. "Yes, Thursday night, or rather Friday morning," he replied. "It was between two and three o'clock. He came here and I fixed him up." "Where was the wound, please?" "In the right shoulder," replied the physician, "just here," and he touched the reporter with one finger. "It wasn't dangerous, but he had lost considerable blood." Hatch was silent for a moment, dazed. Every new point piled up the evidence against Herbert. The location of the wound--a pistol-wound--the very hour of the dressing of it! Dick would have had plenty of time between the moment of the robbery, which was comparatively early, and the hour of his call on Doctor Walpole to do all those things which he was suspected of doing. "I don't suppose Mr. Herbert explained how he got the wound?" Hatch asked apprehensively. He was afraid he had. "No. I asked, but he evaded the question. It was, of course, none of my business, after I had extracted the bullet and dressed the hurt." "You have the bullet?" "Yes. It's the usual size--thirty-two calibre." That was all. The prosecution was in, the case proven, the verdict rendered. Ten minutes later Hatch's name was announced to Dick Herbert. Dick received him gloomily, shook hands with him, then resumed his interrupted pacing. "I had declined to see men from other papers," he said wearily. "Now, look here, Dick," expostulated Hatch, "don't you want to make some statement of your connection with this affair? I honestly believe that if you did it would help you." "No, I cannot make any statement--that's all." Dick's hand closed fiercely. "I can't," he added, "and there's no need to talk of it." He continued his pacing for a moment or so; then turned on the reporter. "Do you believe me guilty?" he demanded abruptly. "I can't believe anything else," Hatch replied falteringly. "But at that I don't _want_ to believe it." There was an embarrassed pause. "I have just seen Dr. Clarence Walpole." "Well?" Dick wheeled on him angrily. "What he said alone would convict you, even if the stuff had not been found here," Hatch replied. "Are you _trying_ to convict me?" Dick demanded. "I'm trying to get the truth," remarked Hatch. "There is just one man in the world whom I must see before the truth can ever be told," declared Dick vehemently. "And I can't find him now. I don't know where he is!" "Let me find him. Who is he? What's his name?" "If I told you that I might as well tell you everything," Dick went on. "It was to prevent any mention of that name that I have allowed myself to be placed in this position. It is purely a personal matter between us--at least I will make it so--and if I ever meet him----" his hands closed and unclosed spasmodically, "the truth will be known unless I--I kill him first." More bewildered, more befuddled, and more generally betangled than ever, Hatch put his hands to his head to keep it from flying off. Finally he glanced around at Dick, who stood with clenched fists and closed teeth. A blaze of madness lay in Dick's eyes. "Have you seen Miss Meredith again?" inquired the reporter. Dick burst out laughing. Half an hour later Hatch left him. On the glass top of an inkstand he carried three precious drops of Herbert's blood. CHAPTER III Faithfully, phonographically even, Hatch repeated to The Thinking Machine the conversation he had had with Doctor Walpole, indicating on the person of the eminent scientist the exact spot of the wound as Doctor Walpole had indicated it to him. The scientist listened without comment to the recital, casually studying meanwhile the three crimson drops on the glass. "Every step I take forward is a step backward," the reporter declared in conclusion with a helpless grin. "Instead of showing that Dick Herbert might not have stolen the plate I am proving conclusively that he was the thief--nailing it to him so hard that he can't possibly get out of it." He was silent a moment. "If I keep on long enough," he added glumly, "I'll hang him." The Thinking Machine squinted at him aggressively. "You still don't believe him guilty?" he asked. "Why, I--I--I----" Hatch burst out savagely. "Damn it, I don't know what I believe," he tapered off. "It's absolutely impossible!" "Nothing is impossible, Mr. Hatch," snapped The Thinking Machine irritably. "The worst a problem can be is difficult, but all problems can be solved as inevitably as that two and two make four--not sometimes, but all the time. Please don't say things are impossible. It annoys me exceedingly." Hatch stared at his distinguished friend and smiled whimsically. He was also annoyed exceedingly on his own private, individual account--the annoyance that comes from irresistibly butting into immovable facts. "Doctor Walpole's statement," The Thinking Machine went on after a moment, "makes this particular problem ludicrously simple. Two points alone show conclusively that Mr. Herbert was not the man in the automobile. I shall reach the third myself." Hatch didn't say anything. The English language is singularly inadequate at times, and if he had spoken he would have had to invent a phraseology to convey even a faint glimmer of what he really thought. "Now, Mr. Hatch," resumed the scientist, quite casually, "I understand you graduated from Harvard in ninety-eight. Yes? Well, Herbert was a classmate of yours there. Please obtain for me one of the printed lists of students who were in Harvard that year--a complete list." "I have one at home," said the reporter. "Get it, please, immediately, and return here," instructed the scientist. Hatch went out and The Thinking Machine disappeared into his laboratory. He remained there for one hour and forty-seven minutes by the clock. When he came out he found the reporter sitting in the reception-room again, holding his head. The scientist's face was as blankly inscrutable as ever. "Here is the list," said Hatch as he handed it over. The Thinking Machine took it in his long, slender fingers and turned two or three leaves. Finally he stopped and ran a finger down one page. "Ah," he exclaimed at last. "I thought so." "Thought what?" asked Hatch curiously. "I'm going out to see Mr. Meredith now," remarked The Thinking Machine irrelevantly. "Come along. Have you met him?" "No." Mr. Meredith had read the newspaper accounts of the arrest of Dick Herbert and the seizure of the gold plate and jewels; he had even taunted his charming daughter with it in a fatherly sort of a way. She was weeping, weeping her heart out over this latest proof of the perfidy and loathsomeness of the man she loved. Incidentally, it may be mentioned here that the astute Mr. Meredith was not aware of any elopement plot--either the first or second. When a card bearing the name of Mr. Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen was handed to Mr. Meredith he went wonderingly into the reception-room. There was a pause as the scientist and Mr. Meredith mentally sized each other up; then introductions--and The Thinking Machine came down to business abruptly, as always. "May I ask, Mr. Meredith," he began, "how many sons you have?" "One," replied Mr. Meredith, puzzled. "May I ask his present address?" went on the scientist. Mr. Meredith studied the belligerent eyes of his caller and wondered what business it was of his, for Mr. Meredith was a belligerent sort of a person himself. "May I ask," he inquired with pronounced emphasis on the personal pronoun, "why you want to know?" Hatch rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was wondering what would happen to him when the cyclone struck. "It may save him and you a great deal of annoyance if you will give me his address," said The Thinking Machine. "I desire to communicate with him immediately on a matter of the utmost importance--a purely personal matter." "Personal matter?" repeated Mr. Meredith. "Your abruptness and manner, sir, were not calculated to invite confidence." The Thinking Machine bowed gravely. "May I ask your son's address?" he repeated. Mr. Meredith considered the matter at some length and finally arrived at the conclusion that he might ask. "He is in South America at present--Buenos Ayres," he replied. "What?" exclaimed The Thinking Machine so suddenly that both Hatch and Mr. Meredith started a little. "What?" he repeated, and wrinkles suddenly appeared in the domelike brow. "I said he was in South America--Buenos Ayres," repeated Mr. Meredith stiffly, but a little awed. "A letter or cable to him in care of the American Consul at Buenos Ayres will reach him promptly." The Thinking Machine's narrow eyes were screwed down to the disappearing point, the slender white fingers were twiddled jerkily, the corrugations remained in his brow. "How long has Mr. Meredith been there?" he asked at last. "Three months." "Do you _know_ he _is_ there?" Mr. Meredith started to say something and swallowed it with an effort. "I know it positively, yes," he replied. "I received this letter dated the second from him three days ago, and to-day I received a cable-dispatch forwarded to me here from Baltimore." "Are you positive the letter is in your son's handwriting?" Mr. Meredith almost choked in mingled bewilderment and resentment at the question and the manner of its asking. "I am positive, yes," he replied at last, preserving his tone of dignity with a perceptible effort. He noted the inscrutable face of his caller and saw the corrugations in the brow suddenly swept away. "What business of yours is it, anyway?" blazed Mr. Meredith suddenly. "May I ask where _you_ were last Thursday night?" went on the even, steady voice. "It's no business of yours," Mr. Meredith blurted. "I was in Baltimore." "Can you prove it in a court of law?" "Prove it? Of course I can prove it!" Mr. Meredith was fairly bellowing at his impassive interrogator. "But it's nobody's business." "If you _can_ prove it, Mr. Meredith," remarked The Thinking Machine quietly, coldly, "you had best make your arrangements to do so, because, believe me, it may be necessary to save you from a charge of having stolen the Randolph gold plate on last Thursday night at the masked ball. Good-day, sir." CHAPTER IV "But Mr. Herbert won't see anyone, sir," protested Blair. "Tell Mr. Herbert, please, that unless I can see him immediately his bail-bond will be withdrawn," directed The Thinking Machine. He stood waiting in the hall while Blair went up the stairs. Dick Herbert took the card impatiently and glanced at it. "Van Dusen," he mused. "Who the deuce is Van Dusen?" Blair repeated the message he had received below. "What does he look like?" inquired Dick. "He's a shrivelled little man with a big yellow head, sir," replied Blair. "Let him come up," instructed Dick. Thus, within an hour after he had talked to Mr. Meredith, The Thinking Machine met Dick Herbert. "What's this about the bail-bond?" Dick inquired. "I wanted to talk to you," was the scientist's calm reply. "That seemed to be the easiest way to make you believe it was important, so----" Dick's face flushed crimson at the trick. "Well, you see me!" he broke out angrily. "I ought to throw you down the stairs, but--what is it?" Not having been invited to a seat, The Thinking Machine took one anyway and settled himself comfortably. "If you will listen to me for a moment without interruption," he began testily, "I think the subject of my remarks will be of deep personal concern to you. I am interested in solving this Randolph plate affair and have perhaps gone further in my investigation than anyone else. At least, I know more about it. There are some things I don't happen to know, however, that are of the greatest importance." "I tell you----" stormed Dick. "For instance," calmly resumed the scientist, "it is very important for me to know whether or not Harry Meredith was masked when he came into this room last Thursday night." [Illustration: "Suddenly he stopped and turned upon The Thinking Machine"] Dick gazed at him in surprise which approached awe. His eyes were widely distended, the lower part of his face lax, for the instant; then his white teeth closed with a snap and he sat down opposite The Thinking Machine. Anger had gone from his manner; instead there was a pallor of apprehension in the clean-cut face. "Who are you, Mr. Van Dusen?" he asked at last. His tone was mild, even deferential. "Was he masked?" insisted the scientist. For a long while Dick was silent. Finally he arose and paced nervously back and forth across the room, glancing at the diminutive figure of The Thinking Machine each time as he turned. "I won't say anything," he decided. "Will you name the cause of the trouble you and Meredith had in Harvard?" asked the scientist. Again there was a long pause. "No," Dick said finally. "Did it have anything to do with theft?" "I don't know who you are or why you are prying into an affair that, at least on its face, does not concern you," replied Dick. "I'll say nothing at all--unless--unless you produce the one man who can and shall explain this affair. Produce him here in this room where I can get my hands on him!" The Thinking Machine squinted at the sturdy shoulders with admiration in his face. "Did it ever happen to occur to you, Mr. Herbert, that Harry Meredith and his father are precisely of the same build?" Some nameless, impalpable expression crept into Dick's face despite an apparent fight to restrain it, and again he stared at the small man in the chair. "And that you and Mr. Meredith are practically of the same build?" Tormented by unasked questions and by those emotions which had compelled him to silence all along, Dick still paced back and forth. His head was whirling. The structure which he had so carefully guarded was tumbling about his ears. Suddenly he stopped and turned upon The Thinking Machine. "Just what do you know of this affair?" he asked. "I know for one thing," replied the scientist positively, "that you were _not_ the man in the automobile." "How do you know that?" "That's beside the question just now." "Do you know who _was_ in the automobile?" Dick insisted. "I can only answer that question when you have answered mine," the scientist went on. "Was Harry Meredith masked when he entered this room last Thursday night?" Dick sat staring down at his hands, which were working nervously. Finally he nodded. The Thinking Machine understood. "You recognised him, then, by something he said or wore?" Again Dick nodded reluctantly. "Both," he added. The Thinking Machine leaned back in his chair and sat there for a long time. At last he arose as if the interview were at an end. There seemed to be no other questions that he desired to ask at the moment. "You need not be unnecessarily alarmed, Mr. Herbert," he assured Dick as he picked up his hat. "I shall act with discretion in this matter. I am not representing anyone who would care to make it unpleasant for you. I may tell you that you made two serious mistakes: the first when you saw or communicated with Mr. Randolph immediately after the plate was stolen the second time, and again when you undertook something which properly belonged within the province of the police." Herbert still sat with his head in his hands as The Thinking Machine went out. It was very late that night--after twelve, in fact--when Hutchinson Hatch called on The Thinking Machine with excitement evident in tone, manner, and act. He was accustomed to calling at any hour; now he found the scientist at work as if it were midday. [Illustration] "The worst has happened," the reporter told him. The Thinking Machine didn't look around. "Detective Mallory and two of his men saw Miss Meredith this evening about nine o'clock," Hatch hurried on, "and bully-ragged her into a confession." "What sort of a confession?" "She admitted that she was in the automobile on the night of the ball and that----" "Mr. Herbert was with her," the scientist supplied. "Yes." "And--what else?" "That her own jewels, valued at twenty thousand dollars, were among those found in Herbert's possession when he was arrested." The Thinking Machine turned and looked at the reporter, just casually, and raised his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn. "Well, she couldn't do anything else," he said calmly. CHAPTER V Hutchinson Hatch remained with The Thinking Machine for more than an hour, and when he left his head was spinning with the multitude of instructions which had been heaped upon him. "Meet me at noon in Detective Mallory's office at police headquarters," The Thinking Machine had said in conclusion. "Mr. Randolph and Miss Meredith will be there." "Miss Meredith?" Hatch repeated. "She hasn't been arrested, you know, and I doubt if she will come." "She will come," the scientist had replied, as if that settled it. Next day the Supreme Intelligence was sitting in his private office. He had eaten the canary; mingled triumph and gratification beamed upon his countenance. The smile remained, but to it was added the quality of curiosity when the door opened and The Thinking Machine, accompanied by Dollie Meredith and Stuyvesant Randolph, entered. "Mr. Hatch called yet?" inquired the scientist. "No," responded the detective. "Dear me!" grumbled the other. "It's one minute after twelve o'clock now. What could have delayed him?" His answer was the clattering rush of a cab and the appearance of Hatch in person a moment later. He came into the room headlong, glanced around, then paused. "Did you get it?" inquired The Thinking Machine. "Yes, I got it, but----" began the reporter. "Nothing else now," commanded the other. There was a little pause as The Thinking Machine selected a chair. The others also sat down. "Well?" inquired the Supreme Intelligence at last. "I would like to ask, Mr. Mallory," the scientist said, "if it would be possible for me to convince you of Mr. Herbert's innocence of the charges against him?" "It would not," replied the detective promptly. "It would not while the facts are before me, supplemented by the statement of Miss Meredith here--her confession." Dollie coloured exquisitely and her lips trembled slightly. "Would it be possible, Miss Meredith," the even voice went on, "to convince _you_ of Mr. Herbert's innocence?" "I--I don't think so," she faltered. "I--I _know_." Tears which had been restrained with difficulty gushed forth suddenly, and The Thinking Machine squinted at her in pained surprise. "Don't do that," he commanded. "It's--it's exceedingly irritating." He paused a moment, then turned suddenly to Mr. Randolph. "And you?" he asked. Mr. Randolph shrugged his shoulders. The Thinking Machine receded still further into his chair and stared dreamily upward with his long, slender fingers pressed tip to tip. Hatch knew the attitude; something was going to happen. He waited anxiously. Detective Mallory knew it, too, and wriggled uncomfortably. "Suppose," the scientist began, "just suppose that we turn a little human intelligence on this problem for a change and see if we can't get the truth out of the blundering muddle that the police have helped to bring about. Let's use logic, inevitable logic, to show, simply enough, that instead of being guilty, Mr. Herbert is innocent." Dolly Meredith suddenly leaned forward in her chair with flushed face, eyes widely opened and lips slightly parted. Detective Mallory also leaned forward in his chair, but there was a different expression on his face--oh, so different. "Miss Meredith, we know you were in the automobile with the Burglar who stole the plate," The Thinking Machine went on. "You probably knew that he was wounded and possibly either aided in dressing the wound--as any woman would--or else saw him dress it himself?" "I bound my handkerchief on it," replied the Girl. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. "Where was the wound?" "In the right shoulder," she replied. "Back or front?" insisted the scientist. "Back," she replied. "Very near the arm, an inch or so below the level of the shoulder." Except for The Thinking Machine himself Hatch was the only person in the room to whom this statement meant anything, and he restrained a shout with difficulty. "Now, Mr. Mallory," the scientist went on calmly, "do you happen to know Dr. Clarence Walpole?" "I know of him, yes," replied the detective. "He is a man of considerable reputation." "Would you believe him under oath?" "Why, certainly, of course." The Supreme Intelligence tugged at his bristly moustache. "If Doctor Walpole should dress a wound and should later, under oath, point out its exact location, you would believe him?" "Why, I'd have to, of course." "Very well," commented The Thinking Machine tersely. "Now I will state an incontrovertible scientific fact for your further enlightenment. You may verify it anyway you choose. This is, briefly, that the blood corpuscles in man average one-thirty-three hundredths of an inch in diameter. Remember that, please: one-thirty-three hundredths of an inch. The system of measurement has reached a state of perfection almost incomprehensible to the man who does not understand." He paused for so long that Detective Mallory began to wriggle again. The others were leaning forward, listening with widely varied expressions on their faces. "Now, Mr. Mallory," continued The Thinking Machine at last, "one of your men shot twice at the Burglar in the automobile, as I understand it?" "Yes--two shots." "Mr. Cunningham?" "Yes, Detective Cunningham." "Is he here now?" The detective pressed a button on his desk and a uniformed man appeared. Instructions were given, and a moment later Detective Cunningham stood before them wonderingly. "I suppose you can prove beyond any shadow of a doubt," resumed the scientist, still addressing Mr. Mallory, "that two shots--_and only two_--were fired?" "I can prove it by twenty witnesses," was the reply. "Good, very good," exclaimed the scientist, and he turned to Cunningham. "You _know_ that only two shots were fired?" "I know it, yes," replied Cunningham. "I fired 'em." "May I see your revolver?" Cunningham produced the weapon and handed it over. The Thinking Machine merely glanced at it. "This is the revolver you used?" "Yes." "Very well, then," remarked the scientist quietly, "on that statement alone Mr. Herbert is proven innocent of the charge against him." There was an astonished gasp all around. Hatch was beginning to see what The Thinking Machine meant, and curiously watched the bewitchingly sorrowful face of Dollie Meredith. He saw all sorts of strange things there. "Proven innocent?" snorted Detective Mallory. "Why, you've convicted him out of hand so far as I can see." "Corpuscles in human blood average, as I said, one-thirty-three hundredths of an inch in diameter," resumed the scientist. "They vary slightly each way, of course. Now, the corpuscles of the Burglar in the automobile measured just one-thirty-one-forty-seven hundredths of an inch. Mr. Herbert's corpuscles, tested the same way, with the same instruments, measure precisely one-thirty-five-sixty hundredths." He stopped as if that were all. "By George!" exclaimed Mr. Randolph. "By George!" "That's all tommy-rot," Detective Mallory burst out. "That's nothing to a jury or to any other man with common sense." "That difference in measurement proves beyond question that Mr. Herbert was not wounded while in the automobile," went on The Thinking Machine as if there had been no interruption. "Now, Mr. Cunningham, may I ask if the Burglar's back was toward you when you fired?" "Yes. He was going away from me." "Well, that statement agrees with the statement of Miss Meredith to show that the Burglar was wounded in the back. Doctor Walpole dressed Mr. Herbert's wound between two and three o'clock Friday morning following the masked ball. Mr. Herbert had been shot, but the wound was in the _front_ of his right shoulder." Delighted amazement radiated from Dollie Meredith's face; she clapped her hands involuntarily as she would have applauded a stage incident. Detective Mallory started to say something, then thought better of it and glared at Cunningham instead. "Now, Mr. Cunningham says that he shot the Burglar with this revolver." The Thinking Machine waved the weapon under Detective Mallory's nose. "This is the usual police weapon. Its calibre is thirty-eight. Mr. Herbert was shot with a _thirty-two_ calibre. Here is the bullet." And he tossed it on the desk. CHAPTER VI Strange emotions all tangled up with turbulent, night-marish impressions scrambled through Dollie Meredith's pretty head in garish disorder. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Finally she compromised by blushing radiantly at the memory of certain lingering kisses she had bestowed upon--upon--Dick Herbert? No, it wasn't Dick Herbert. Oh, dear! Detective Mallory pounced upon the bullet as a hound upon a hare, and turned and twisted it in his hands. Cunningham leaned over his shoulder, then drew a cartridge from the revolver and compared it, as to size, with the bullet. Hatch and Mr. Randolph, looking on, saw him shake his head. The ball was too small for the revolver. The Supreme Intelligence turned suddenly, fiercely, upon Dollie and thrust an accusing finger into her startled face. "Mr. Herbert confessed to you that he was with you in the automobile, didn't he?" "Y-yes," she faltered. "You _know_ he was with you?" "I thought I knew it." "You wouldn't have gone with any other man?" "Certainly not!" A blaze of indignation suffused her cheeks. "Your casket of jewels was found among the stolen goods in his possession?" "Yes, but----" With a wave of his hand the Supreme Intelligence stopped explanations and turned to glare at The Thinking Machine. That imperturbable gentleman did not alter his position in the slightest, nor did he change the steady, upward squint of his eyes. "If you have quite finished, Mr. Mallory," he said after a moment, "I will explain how and in what circumstances the stolen plate and jewels came into Mr. Herbert's possession." "Go on," urged Mr. Randolph and Hatch in a breath. "Explain all you please; I've got him with the goods on," declared the Supreme Intelligence doggedly. "When the simplest rules of logic establish a fact it becomes incontrovertible," resumed the scientist. "I have shown that Mr. Herbert was _not_ the man in the automobile--the Burglar. Now, what _did_ happen to Mr. Herbert? Twice since his arrest he has stated that it would be useless for him to explain because no one would believe it, and no one _would_ have believed it unsupported, least of all you, Mr. Mallory. "It's an admitted fact that Miss Meredith and Mr. Herbert had planned to elope from Seven Oaks the night of the ball. I daresay that Mr. Herbert did not deem it wise for Miss Meredith to know his costume, although he must, of necessity, have known hers. Therefore, the plan was for him to recognise her, but as it developed she recognised him--or thought she did--and that was the real cause of this remarkable muddle." He glanced at Dollie. "Is that correct?" Dollie nodded blushingly. "Now, Mr. Herbert did not go to the ball--why not I will explain later. Therefore, Miss Meredith recognised the real Burglar as Mr. Herbert, and we know how they ran away together after the Burglar had stolen the plate and various articles of jewelry. We must credit the Burglar with remarkable intelligence, so that when a young and attractive woman--I may say a beautiful woman--spoke to him as someone else he immediately saw an advantage in it. For instance, when there came discovery of the theft the girl might unwittingly throw the police off the track by revealing to them what she believed to be the identity of the thief. Further, he was a daring, audacious sort of person; the pure love of such an adventure might have appealed to him. Still, again, it is possible that he believed Miss Meredith a thief who was in peril of discovery or capture, and a natural gallantry for one of his own craft prompted him to act as he did. There is always, too, the possibility that he knew he was mistaken for Mr. Herbert." Dollie was beginning to see, too. "We know the method of escape, the pursuit, and all that," continued the Professor, "therefore we jump to the return of the gold plate. Logic makes it instantly apparent that that was the work of Miss Meredith here. Not having the plate, Mr. Herbert did not send it back, of course; and the Burglar _would_ not have sent it back. Realising, too late, that the man she was with was really a thief--and still believing him, perhaps, to be Mr. Herbert--she must have taken the plate and escaped under cover of darkness?" The tone carried a question and The Thinking Machine turned squintingly upon Dollie. Again she nodded. She was enthralled, fascinated, by the recital. "It was a simple matter for her to return the gold plate by express, taking advantage of an unoccupied house and the willingness of a stranger to telephone for an express wagon. Thus, we have the plate again at Seven Oaks, and we have it there by the only method it could have been returned there when we account for, and consider, every known fact." The Thinking Machine paused and sat silently staring upward. His listeners readjusted themselves in their chairs and waited impatiently. "Now, why did Mr. Herbert confess to Miss Meredith that he stole the plate?" asked the scientist, as if of himself. "Perhaps she forced him to it. Mr. Herbert is a young man of strong loyalty and a grim sense of humour, this latter being a quality the police are not acquainted with. However, Mr. Herbert _did_ confess to Miss Meredith that he was the Burglar, but he made this confession, obviously, because she would believe nothing else, and when a seeming necessity of protecting the real Burglar was still uppermost in his mind. What he wanted was the Girl. If the facts never came out he was all right; if they did come out they would implicate one whom he was protecting, but through no fault of his--therefore, he was still all right." "Bah!" exclaimed the Supreme Intelligence. "My experience has shown that a man doesn't confess to a theft unless----" "So we may safely assume," The Thinking Machine continued almost pleasantly, "that Mr. Herbert, by confessing the theft as a prank, perhaps, won back Miss Meredith's confidence; that they planned an elopement for the second time. A conversation Mr. Hatch had with Mr. Herbert immediately after Mr. Herbert saw Miss Meredith practically confirms it. Then, with matters in this shape, the real Burglar, to whom I have accredited unusual powers, stole the plate the second time--we know how." "Herbert stole it, you mean!" blazed Detective Mallory. "This theft came immediately on top of the reconciliation of Miss Meredith and Mr. Herbert," The Thinking Machine went on steadily, without heeding the remark by the slightest sign. "Therefore, it was only natural that he should be the person most vitally interested in seeing that the plate was again returned. He undertook to do this himself. The result was that, where the police had failed, he found the plate and a lot of jewels, took them from the Burglar, and was about to return Mr. Randolph's property when the detectives walked in on him. That is why he laughed." Detective Mallory arose from his seat and started to say something impolite. The presence of Dollie Meredith choked the words back and he swallowed hard. "Who then," he demanded after a couple of gulps--"who do you say is the thief if Herbert is not?" The Thinking Machine glanced up into his face, then turned to Hatch. "Mr. Hatch, what is that name I asked you to get?" "George Francis Hayden," was the stammering reply, "but--but----" "Then George Francis Hayden is the thief," declared The Thinking Machine emphatically. "But I--I started to say," Hatch blurted--"I started to say that George Francis Hayden has been dead for two years." The Thinking Machine rose suddenly and glared at the reporter. There was a tense silence, broken at last by a chuckle from Detective Mallory. "Dead?" repeated the scientist incredulously. "Do you _know_ that?" "Yes, I--I know it." The Thinking Machine stood for another moment squinting at him, then, turning, left the room. CHAPTER VII Half an hour later The Thinking Machine walked in, unannounced, upon Dick Herbert. The front door had not been locked; Blair was somewhere in the rear. Herbert, in some surprise, glanced up at his visitor just in time to see him plank himself down solidly into a chair. "Mr. Herbert," the scientist began, "I have gone out of my way to prove to the police that you were not in the automobile with Miss Meredith, and that you did not steal the gold plate found in your possession. Now, I happen to know the name of the thief, and----" "And if you mention it to one living soul," Dick added suddenly, hotly, "I shall forget myself and--and----" "His name is George Francis Hayden," the scientist continued. Dick started a little and straightened up; the menace dropped from him and he paused to gaze curiously into the wizened face before him. After a moment he drew a sigh of deep relief. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Oh!" "I know that that isn't who you thought it was," resumed the other, "but the fact remains that Hayden is the man with whom Miss Meredith unwittingly eloped, and that Hayden is the man who actually stole the plate and jewels. Further, the fact remains that Hayden----" "Is dead," Dick supplemented grimly. "You are talking through your----" He coughed a little. "You are talking without any knowledge of what you are saying." "He can't be dead," remarked the scientist calmly. "But he _is_ dead!" Dick insisted. "He can't be dead," snapped the other abruptly. "It's perfectly silly to suppose such a thing. Why, I have proven absolutely, by the simplest rules of logic, that he stole the gold plate, therefore he cannot be dead. It's silly to say so." Dick wasn't quite certain whether to be angry or amused. He decided to hold the matter in abeyance for the moment and see what other strange thing would develop. "How long has he been dead?" continued the scientist. "About two years." "You _know_ it?" "Yes, I know it." "_How_ do you know it?" "Because I attended his funeral," was the prompt reply. Dick saw a shadow of impatience flash into his visitor's face and instantly pass. "How did he die?" queried the scientist. "He was lost from his catboat," Dick answered. "He had gone out sailing, alone, while in a bathing-suit. Several hours after the boat drifted in on the tide without him. Two or three weeks later the body was recovered." "Ah!" exclaimed The Thinking Machine. Then, for half an hour or so, he talked, and--as he went on, incisively, pointedly, dramatically, even, at times--Dick Herbert's eyes opened wider and wider. At the end he rose and gripped the scientist's slender white fingers heartily in his own with something approaching awe in his manner. Finally he put on his hat and they went out together. That evening at eight o'clock Detective Mallory, Hutchinson Hatch, Mr. Randolph, Mr. Meredith, Mr. Greyton, and Dollie Meredith gathered in a parlour of the Greyton home by request of The Thinking Machine. They were waiting for something--no one knew exactly what. Finally there came a tinkle at the bell and The Thinking Machine entered. Behind him came Dick Herbert, Dr. Clarence Walpole, and a stranger. Mr. Meredith glanced up quickly at Herbert, and Dollie lifted her chin haughtily with a stony stare which admitted of no compromise. Dick pleaded for recognition with his eyes, but it was no use, so he sat down where he could watch her unobserved. Singular expressions flitted over the countenance of the Supreme Intelligence. Right here, now, he knew the earth was to be jerked out from under him and he was not at all certain that there would be anything left for him to cling to. This first impression was strengthened when The Thinking Machine introduced Doctor Walpole with an ostentatious squint at Mr. Mallory. The detective set his teeth hard. The Thinking Machine sat down, stretched out his slender legs, turned his eyes upward, and adjusted his fingers precisely, tip to tip. The others watched him anxiously. "We will have to go back a few years to get the real beginning of the events which have culminated so strangely within the past week," he said. "This was a close friendship of three young men in college. They were Mr. Herbert here, a freshman, and Harry Meredith and George Francis Hayden, juniors. This friendship, not an unusual one in college, was made somewhat romantic by the young men styling themselves The Triangle. They occupied the same apartments and were exclusive to a degree. Of necessity Mr. Herbert was drawn from that exclusiveness, to a certain extent by his participation in football." A germ of memory was working in Hatch's mind. "At someone's suggestion three triangular watch charms were made, identical in every way save for initials on the back. They bore a symbol which was meaningless except to The Triangle. They were made to order and are, therefore, the only three of the kind in the world. Mr. Herbert has one now on his watch chain, with his own initials; there is another with the initials 'G. F. H.' in the lot of jewelry Mr. Mallory recovered from Mr. Herbert. The third is worn by Harry Meredith, who is now in Buenos Ayres. The American Consul there has confirmed, by cable, that fact. "In the senior year the three young men of The Triangle were concerned in the mysterious disappearance of a valuable diamond ring. It was hushed up in college after it seemed established that Mr. Herbert was a thief. Knowing his own innocence and seeing what seemed to be an exclusive opportunity for Harry Meredith to have done what was charged, Mr. Herbert laid the matter to him, having at that time an interview with Harry's father. The result of that interview was more than ever to convince Mr. Meredith of Mr. Herbert's guilt. As a matter of fact, the thief in that case was George Francis Hayden." There were little murmurs of astonishment, and Mr. Meredith turned and stared at Dick Herbert. Dollie gave him a little glance out of a corner of her eye, smiled, then sat up primly. "This ended The Triangle," resumed the scientist. "A year or so later Mr. Herbert met Miss Meredith. About two years ago George Francis Hayden was reported drowned from his catboat. This was confirmed, apparently, by the finding of his body, and an insurance company paid over a large sum--I think it was $25,000--to a woman who said she was his wife. But George Francis Hayden was not drowned; he is alive now. It was a carefully planned fraud against the insurance company, and it succeeded. "This, then, was the situation on last Thursday--the night of the masked ball at Seven Oaks--except that there had grown up a love affair between Miss Meredith and Mr. Herbert. Naturally, the father opposed this because of the incident in college. Both Miss Meredith and Mr. Herbert had invitations to that ball. It was an opportunity for an elopement and they accepted it. Mr. Herbert sent word to her what costume to wear; she did not know the nature of his. "On Thursday afternoon Miss Meredith sent her jewel-casket, with practically all her jewels, to Mr. Herbert. She wanted them, naturally; they probably planned a trip abroad. The maid in this house took the casket and gave it into Mr. Herbert's own hands. Am I right?" He turned squarely and squinted at Dollie. "Yes," she gasped quickly. She smiled distractingly upon her father and he made some violent remarks to himself. "At this point, Fate, in the guise of a masked Burglar, saw fit to step into the affair," the scientist went on after a moment. "About nine-thirty, Thursday evening, while Mr. Herbert was alone, the masked Burglar, George Francis Hayden, entered Mr. Herbert's house, possibly thinking everyone was away. There, still masked, he met Mr. Herbert, who--by something the Burglar said and by the triangular charm he wore--recognised him as _Harry Meredith_. Remember, he thought he knew George Francis Hayden was dead. "There were some words and a personal encounter between the two men. George Francis Hayden fired a shot which struck Mr. Herbert in the right shoulder--in front--took the jewel-casket in which Mr. Herbert had placed his card of invitation to the ball, and went away, leaving Mr. Herbert senseless on the floor." Dollie's face blanched suddenly and she gasped. When she glanced involuntarily at Dick she read the love-light in his eyes, and her colour returned with a rush. "Several hours later, when Mr. Herbert recovered consciousness," the unruffled voice went on, "he went to Doctor Walpole, the nearest physician, and there the bullet was extracted and the wound dressed. The ball was thirty-two calibre?" Doctor Walpole nodded. "And Mr. Cunningham's revolver carried a thirty-eight," added the scientist. "Now we go back to the Burglar. He found the invitation in the casket, and the bold scheme, which later he carried out so perfectly, came to him as an inspiration. He went to the ball just as he was. Nerve, self-possession, and humour took him through. We know the rest of that. "Naturally, in the circumstances, Mr. Herbert, believing that Harry Meredith was the thief, would say nothing to bring disgrace upon the name of the girl he loved. Instead, he saw Miss Meredith, who would not accept his denial then, and in order to get her first--explanations might come later--he confessed to the theft, whereupon they planned the second elopement. "When Miss Meredith returned the plate by express there was no anticipation of a second theft. Here is where we get a better understanding of the mettle of the real Burglar--George Francis Hayden. He went back and got the plate from Seven Oaks. Instantly that upset the second elopement plan. Then Mr. Herbert undertook the search, got a clew, followed it, and recovered not only the plate, but a great lot of jewels." There was a pause. A skyrocket ascended in Hatch's mind and burst, illuminating the whole tangled story. Detective Mallory sat dumbly, thinking harsh words. Mr. Meredith arose, went over to Dick Herbert, and solemnly shook his hand, after which he sat down again. Dollie smiled charmingly. CHAPTER VIII "Now that is what actually happened," said The Thinking Machine, after a little while. "How do I know it? Logic, logic, logic! The logical mind can start from any given point and go backward or forward, with equal facility, to a natural conclusion. This is as certain as that two and two make four--not _sometimes_, but _all_ the time. "First in this case I had Mr. Hatch's detailed examination of each circumstance. By an inspiration he connected Mr. Herbert and Miss Meredith with the affair and talked to both before the police had any knowledge at all of them. In other words, he reached at a bound what they took days to accomplish. After the second theft he came to me and related the story." The reporter blushed modestly. "Mr. Hatch's belief that the thing that had happened to Mr. Herbert and Miss Meredith bore on the theft," resumed the scientist, "was susceptible of confirmation or refutation in only one way, this being so because of Mr. Herbert's silence--due to his loyalty. I saw that. But, before I went further, I saw clearly what had actually happened _if_ I presupposed that there _had_ been some connection. Thus came to me, I may say here, the almost certain knowledge that Miss Meredith had a brother, although I had never heard of him or her." He paused a little and twiddled his thumbs thoughtfully. "Suppose you give us just your line of reasoning," ventured Hatch. "Well, I began with the blood-stains in the automobile to either bring Mr. Herbert into this affair or shut him out," replied the scientist. "You know how I made the blood tests. They showed conclusively that the blood on the cushion was not Mr. Herbert's. Remember, please, that, although I knew Miss Meredith had been in the automobile, I also knew she was not wounded; therefore the blood was that of someone else--the man. "Now, I knew Mr. Herbert had been wounded--he wouldn't say how. If at home, would he not go to the nearest physician? Probably. I got Doctor Walpole's name from the telephone-book--he being nearest the Herbert home--and sent Mr. Hatch there, where he learned of the wound in front, and of the thirty-two calibre ball. I already knew the police revolvers were thirty-eight calibre; therefore Mr. Herbert was not wounded while in the automobile. "That removed Mr. Herbert as a possibility in the first theft, despite the fact that his invitation-card was presented at the door. It was reasonable to suppose that invitation had been stolen. Immediately after the plate was returned by express, Mr. Herbert effected a reconciliation with Miss Meredith. Because of this and for other reasons I could not bring myself to see that he was a party to the second theft, as I knew him to be innocent of the first. Yet, what happened to him? Why wouldn't he say something? "All things must be imagined before they can be achieved; therefore imagination is one of the most vital parts of the scientific brain. In this instance I could only imagine why Mr. Herbert was silent. Remember, he was shot and wouldn't say who did it. Why? If it had been an ordinary thief--and I got the idea of a thief from the invitation-card being in other hands than his--he would not have hesitated to talk. Therefore, it was an _extraordinary_ thief in that it connected with something near and dear to him. No one was nearer and dearer to him than Miss Meredith. Did she shoot him? No. Did her father shoot him? Probably not, but possibly. A brother? That began to look more reasonable. Mr. Herbert would probably not have gone so far to protect one less near to her than brother or father. "For the moment I assumed a brother, not knowing. How did Mr. Herbert know this brother? Was it in his college days? Mr. Hatch brought me a list of the students of three years before his graduating year and there I found the name, Harry Meredith. You see, step by step, pure logic was leading me to something tangible, definite. My next act was to see Mr. Meredith and ask for the address of his son--an only son--whom at that time I frankly believed was the real thief. But this son was in South America. That startled me a little and brought me up against the father as a possible thief. He was in Baltimore on that night. "I accepted that as true at the moment after some--er--some pleasant words with Mr. Meredith. Then the question: Was the man who stole from Mr. Herbert, probably entering his place and shooting him, masked? Mr. Herbert said he was. I framed the question so as to bring Harry Meredith's name into it, much to Mr. Herbert's alarm. How had he recognised him as Harry Meredith? By something he said or wore? Mr. Herbert replied in the affirmative--both. Therefore I had a masked Burglar who could _not_ have been either Harry Meredith or Harry Meredith's father. Who was he? "I decided to let Mr. Hatch look into that point for me, and went to see Doctor Walpole. He gave me the bullet he had extracted from Mr. Herbert's shoulder. Mr. Hatch, shortly after, rushed in on me with the statement that Miss Meredith had admitted that Mr. Herbert had confessed to her. I could see instantly _why_ he had confessed to her. Then Mr. Hatch undertook for me the investigation of Herbert's and Harry Meredith's career in college. He remembered part of it and unearthed the affair of The Triangle and the theft of a diamond ring. "I had asked Mr. Hatch to find for me if Harry Meredith and Mr. Herbert had had a mutual intimate in college. They had. George Francis Hayden, the third member of the Triangle. Then the question seemed solved, but Mr. Hatch upset everything when he said that Mr. Hayden was dead. I went immediately to see Mr. Herbert. From him I learned that, although Mr. Hayden was _supposed_ to be dead and buried, there was no positive proof of it; the body recovered had been in the water three weeks and was consequently almost unrecognisable. Therefore, the theft came inevitably to Mr. Hayden. Why? Because the Burglar had been recognised by something he said and wore. It would have been difficult for Mr. Herbert to recognise a masked man so positively unless the masked man _wore_ something he absolutely _knew_, or _said_ something he absolutely _knew_. Mr. Herbert _thought_ with reason that the masked man was Harry Meredith, but, with Harry Meredith in South America, the thief was incontrovertibly George Francis Hayden. There was no going behind that. "After a short interview as to Hayden, during which Mr. Herbert told me more of The Triangle and the three watch charms, he and I went out investigating. He took me to the room where he had found the plate and jewels--a place in an apartment-house which this gentleman manages." The scientist turned to the stranger, who had been a silent listener. "He identified an old photograph of George Francis Hayden as an occupant of an apartment. "Mr. Herbert and I searched the place. My growing idea, based on the established knavery of George Francis Hayden, that he was the real thief in the college incident, was proven when I found this ring there--the ring that was stolen at that time--with the initials of the owner in it." The Thinking Machine produced the ring and offered it to Detective Mallory, who had allowed the earth to slip away from him slowly but surely, and he examined it with a new and absorbed interest. "Mr. Herbert and I learned of the insurance fraud in another manner--that is, when we knew that George Francis Hayden was not dead, we knew there had been a fraud. Mr. Hayden has been known lately as Chester Goodrich. He has been missing since Mr. Herbert, in his absence, recovered the plate and the jewels in his apartments. I may add that, up to the day of the masked ball, he was protected from casual recognition by a full beard. He is now clean-shaven." The Thinking Machine glanced at Mr. Mallory. "Your man--Downey, I think it was--did excellent work," he said, "in tracing Miss Meredith from the time she left the automobile until she returned home, and later leading you to Mr. Herbert. It was not strange that you should have been convinced of his guilt when we consider the goods found in his possession and also the wound in his shoulder. The only trouble is he didn't get to the real insides of it." That was all. For a long time there was silence. Dollie Meredith's pretty face was radiant and her eyes were fastened on her father. Mr. Meredith glanced at her, cleared his throat several times, then arose and offered his hand to Dick Herbert. "I have done you an injustice, sir," he said gravely. "Permit me to apologise. I think perhaps my daughter----" That was superfluous. Dollie was already beside Dick, and a rousing, smacking, resounding kiss echoed her father's words. Dick liked it some and was ready for more, but Dollie impetuously flung her arms around the neck of The Thinking Machine, and he--passed to his reward. "You dear old thing!" she gurgled. "You're just too sweet and cute for anything." [Illustration] "Dear me! Dear me!" fussed The Thinking Machine. "Don't do that. It annoys me exceedingly." * * * * * Some three months later, when the search for George Francis Hayden had become only lukewarm, this being three days before Miss Meredith's wedding to Dick Herbert, she received a small box containing a solitaire ring and a note. It was brief: In memory of one night in the woods and of what happened there, permit me to give this--you can't return it. It is one of the few things honest money from me ever paid for. BILL, THE BURGLAR. While Dollie examined the ring with mingled emotions Dick stared at the postmark on the package. "It's a corking good clew," he said enthusiastically. Dollie turned to him, recognising a menace in the words, and took the paper which bore the postmark from his hands. "Let's pretend," she said gently--"let's pretend we don't know where it came from!" Dick stared a little and kissed her. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Repaired obvious spelling and punctuation typos. Period spellings and unusual grammatical usages retained. Both "waggon" and "wagon" were used in this text, consistent within character voices--retained. 
61486	----	[Illustration: Boy Saved by the Light-ship's Men.] THE STEEL HORSE OR THE RAMBLES OF A BICYCLE BY HARRY CASTLEMON AUTHOR OF "GUNBOAT SERIES," "ROUGHING IT SERIES," "ROD AND GUN SERIES," ETC. PHILADELPHIA HENRY T. COATES & CO. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. In Which I make my Bow, 1 II. The Strange Wheelman, 25 III. A Case of Mistaken Identity, 50 IV. Rowe Shelly, the Runaway, 74 V. Roy in Trouble, 98 VI. Another Surprise for Roy, 121 VII. Some Startling News, 145 VIII. On Board the White Squall, 169 IX. A Swim in Rough Water, 194 X. The Boy who Wouldn't be Pumped, 219 XI. On the Road Again, 242 XII. Joe's Wild Ride, 266 XIII. Going into a Hot Place, 289 XIV. Arthur's Ready Rifle, 311 XV. Mr. Holmes's Warning, 333 XVI. Two Narrow Escapes, 355 XVII. An Unexpected Meeting, 375 XVIII. Conclusion, 399 THE STEEL HORSE; OR, THE RAMBLES OF A BICYCLE. CHAPTER I. IN WHICH I MAKE MY BOW. "Scotland's a-burning! Look out, fellows! Put on the brakes, or you will be right on top of it the first thing you know." "On top of what?" "Why, can't you see? If it hadn't been for my lamp I should have taken the worst header anybody ever heard of. How some fellows can run around on their wheels after dark without a light, and take the chances of breaking their necks, beats my time, I wouldn't do it for any money." "Great Scott! How do you suppose that pile of things came on the track?" "It isn't a pile of things. It is a big rock which has rolled down from the bank above, and we have discovered it in time to prevent a terrible railroad disaster." "The rains loosened it, probably." "Well, what are we standing here for? Let's take hold, all hands, and roll it off before the train comes along." "We can't roll it off. It's half as big as Rube Royall's cabin. It seems strange to me that it stopped so squarely in the middle of the track. I should think it ought to have gathered headway enough during its descent to roll clear across the road-bed, and down into the gulf on the other side." The speakers were your old friends Joe Wayring and his two chums, Roy Sheldon and Arthur Hastings; and I am one of the Expert Columbians who were introduced to your notice in the concluding chapters of the second volume of this series of books. I have been urged by my companions to describe the interesting and exciting incidents that happened during our vacation run from one end of the State to the other and back again, on which we set out just a week ago to-day. I have begun the task with many misgivings. This is my first appearance as a story-teller; but then my friends, Old Durability and the Canvas Canoe, labored under the same disadvantage. When I am through it will be for you to decide which one of us has interested you the most. You will remember that when the Canvas Canoe's adventures were ended for the season and he was "laid up in ordinary" (by which I mean the recess in Joe Wayring's room), it was midwinter. The ponds and lakes were frozen over, and the hills surrounding the little village of Mount Airy were covered with snow. The canoe had just been hauled up from the bottom of Indian River, where he had lain for four long, dismal months, wondering what was to become of him and the six thousand dollars he had carried down with him when he was "Snagged and Sunk" by the big tree that was carried out of Sherwin's Pond by the high water. You know that Roy Sheldon discovered him with the aid of his "water-scope," that Joe got his canoe back (a little the worse for his captivity, it must be confessed, for there was a gaping wound in his side), and that the money quickly found its way into the hands of the officers of the Irvington bank, from whom it had been stolen by the two sneak-thieves who were finally captured by Mr. Swan and his party. Before this happened Matt Coyle's wife and boys had been shut up in the New London jail to await their trial, which was to come off as soon as Matt himself had been arrested. The truth of the matter was, the Indian Lake guides were so incensed at Matt for his daring and persistent efforts to break up their business and to ruin the two hotels at the lake, that they threatened to make short work of him and all his worthless tribe; and as the guides were men who never said a thing of this sort unless they meant it, the authorities were of opinion that the old woman and the boys would be safer in the New London lock-up than they would be if confined in the tumble-down calaboose at Irvington. But now it appeared that Matt Coyle could not be arrested and brought to trial, for the good and sufficient reason that he was dead. He was drowned when the canvas canoe was snagged and sunk. Joe Wayring and his chums declared, from the first, that if the squatter had attempted to run out of the river into Sherwin's Pond during the freshet that prevailed at the time of his flight, he had surely come to grief. If three strong boys, who were expert with the oars, could not pull a light skiff against the current that ran out of the pond, how could Matt Coyle hope to stem it in a heavily-loaded canoe and with a single paddle? If he had been foolish enough to try it, he would never be heard of again until his body was picked up somewhere in the neighborhood of the State hatchery. The finding of the canoe and his valuable cargo at the bottom of the river led others to Joe's way of thinking, and it was finally conceded on all hands that the squatter would never again rob unguarded camps, or renew his attempts to "break up the business of guiding." Nothing remained, then, but to remove his wife and boys to Irvington and hold them for trial at the next term of the circuit court. The grand jury first took the matter in hand, and Joe Wayring and his chums, much to their disgust, were summoned to appear before it as witnesses. When Tom Bigden and his cousins, Loren and Ralph Farnsworth, heard of that, they shook in their boots. And well they might; for, as you know, Tom was accessory to some of Matt's violations of the law. More than that, rumor said that the old woman had told all she knew, and that she had even gone so far as to assure the officers of the Irvington Bank that she and her family would not have been half so bad as they were, if one Tom Bigden had not advised and urged them to commit crime. "It's all over with me, boys," groaned Tom, when one of his school-fellows incidentally remarked in his hearing that he had seen Joe Wayring and his two friends take the train for Irvington that morning to testify before the grand jury. "You know Joe is jealous of me and that he will do anything he can to injure me." "Well," said Ralph, plunging his hands deep into his pockets and looking thoughtfully at the ground, "what would _you_ do to a fellow who was the means of having you tied to a tree with a fair prospect of a good beating with hickory switches on your bare back? Would you be friendly to him or feel like shielding him from punishment?" "But I didn't tell Matt to tie Joe Wayring to a tree and thrash him," retorted Tom. "I never thought of such a thing." "I didn't say you did," replied Ralph. "I said you were the cause of it, and so you were; for you told Matt that you had seen the valises that contained the six thousand stolen dollars in Joe's camp-basket." "Matt was a fool to believe it," said Loren. "One little camp-basket wouldn't hold both those gripsacks." "That doesn't alter the facts of the case," answered Ralph. "Matt did believe the story, ridiculous as it was, and Tom's fate is in the hands of a boy whom we have abused and bothered in all possible ways ever since we have been here." "And we didn't have the slightest reason or excuse for it," added Loren. "So you're going back on me, are you?" exclaimed Tom. "Not at all. We are simply telling you the truth." "Perhaps Joe doesn't know that Tom put it into Matt's head to follow him and his friends to No-Man's Pond," suggested Loren. "I haven't heard a word said about it." "Neither have I; but that's no proof that Joe doesn't know all about it," answered Ralph. "Who do you think told him?" asked Tom. "It couldn't have been Matt Coyle, for I told him particularly not to mention my name in Joe's hearing, or drop a hint that would lead him to suspect that Matt had seen me in the Indian Lake country." "The squatter didn't care _that_ for your injunctions of secrecy," said Ralph, snapping his fingers in the air. "What he said to you during those interviews you held with him ought to convince you that he would just as soon get you into trouble as anybody else. Being a social outcast, Matt believes in making war upon every one who is higher up in the world than he is." "Well," said Tom, with a sigh of resignation, "if Joe knows as much as you think he does, my chances of getting out of the scrapes I've got into are few and far between. He'll tell everything, and be glad of the chance. I wish from the bottom of my heart that we had never seen or heard of Mount Airy." "Joe Wayring will tell nothing unless it is forced out of him," said Ralph stoutly; and for the first time in his life Tom did not scowl and double up his fists as he had been in the habit of doing whenever either of his cousins said anything in praise of the boy he hated without a cause. If Joe was as honorable as Ralph seem to think he was, Tom thought he saw a chance to escape punishment for his wrong-doing. "He'll not commit perjury nor even stretch the truth to screen you," continued Ralph, as if he read the thoughts that were passing in Tom's mind. "But he'll not volunteer any evidence; I am sure of that." If Ralph had been one of Joe Wayring's most intimate friends he could not have read him better. The latter was very much afraid that he would be compelled to say something that would criminate Tom, but to his surprise and relief the members of the grand jury did not seem to know that there was such a fellow in the world as Tom Bigden, for they never once mentioned his name. If the old woman and her boys had tried to throw the blame for their misdeeds upon his shoulders, they hadn't made anything by it. All the jury cared for was to find out just how much Joe and his friends knew about the six thousand dollars that had been stolen from the Irvington Bank; and as the boys knew but little about it, it did not take them long to give their evidence. Finally one of the jurymen said: "Matt Coyle bothered you a good deal by stealing your canvas canoe and other property, I believe." Joe replied that that was a fact. "Would you prosecute him for it, if you had a chance?" Joe said he never expected to have a chance, because Matt was dead. "Perhaps he is, and perhaps he isn't," said the juryman, with a laugh. "Matt Coyle is a hard case, if all I hear about him is true, and it sorter runs in my mind that he will turn up again some day, as full of meanness as he ever was." "You wouldn't think so if you could see Indian River booming as it was on the day we came home," said Joe, earnestly. "It must have been a great deal worse when Matt saw it, but he had the hardihood to face it." "And went to the bottom," added Roy. "Would you have the law on him for tying you to a tree and threatening to wallop you with switches?" asked the juryman. "No sir, I would not," said Joe, truthfully. "All we ask of Matt Coyle or any other tramp is to keep away from us and let us alone." "Do you believe any one told Matt that you had the bank's money and sent him to No-Man's Pond to whip it out of you?" "No, I don't." "Matt's boys stick to it that such is the fact." "I don't care what Matt's boys say or what they stick to," answered Joe. "You can imagine what the evidence of such fellows as they are amounts to. Folks who will steal are not above lying, are they?" "That juryman isn't half as smart as he thinks he is," said Roy, when he and his companions had been dismissed with the information that they might start for Mount Airy as soon as they pleased. "I was awfully afraid that his next question would be: 'Did you ever hear that Tom Bigden was accessory to Matt Coyle's assault upon you at No-Man's Pond?' You could not have wiggled out of that corner, Mr. Wayring." "I didn't wiggle out of any corner," answered Joe. "I made replies to all the questions he asked me, didn't I? That juryman knew his business too well to ask me any such question as that. My answer would have been simply hearsay, and that's not evidence. See the point?" "Why, didn't Jake Coyle declare in your hearing that Tom Bigden told his father that the money was in your camp-basket?" demanded Arthur. "Well, what's that but hearsay? Do you expect me to take Jake's word for anything? I didn't hear Tom tell him so." "No; but you have as good proof as any sensible boy needs that Tom did it. If not, why did Matt fly into such a rage at the mention of his name, and cut Jake's face so unmercifully with that switch?" "I don't believe that would pass for evidence, although it might lead the jury to put a little more faith in Jake's story and Sam's," answered Joe. "We didn't come here to get Tom into trouble. Didn't they say at the start that all they wanted of us was to tell what we knew about that money? We've done that, and my conscience is clear. I think Tom will take warning and mind what he is about in future." "I'll bet you he won't," Roy declared. "He'll get you into difficulty of some sort the very first good chance he gets." "If he does, and I can fasten it on him, I'll give him such a punching that his cousins won't know him when they see him. I'm getting tired of this sort of work, and I'll not put up with it any longer. If Tom will not leave off bothering us of his own accord, I'll make him." In due time the jury returned a "true bill" against Jake Coyle for burglary. Mr. Haskins had little difficulty in proving that Jake broke the fastenings of his door before he robbed the cellar, gave a list of the things he had lost, and Rube Royall, the watchman at the hatchery, testified that those same articles appeared on Matt Coyle's table on the following morning. Jake went to the House of Refuge for five years; but nothing could be proved against Sam and the old woman, and they were turned over to a justice of the peace to be tried for vagrancy. They got ninety days each in the New London work-house. "There, Ralph," said Tom, when he read this welcome news in his father's paper. "You said Matt Coyle didn't care the snap of his finger for my wishes, but now you see that you were mistaken, don't you? Matt never told Joe Wayring that I sent them to his camp after that money, and his boys didn't blab it, either. If they had, Joe would have said something about it when he was brought before the grand jury." "Well, what are you going to do to Joe now?" inquired his cousin. "I mean, what kind of a scrape are you going to get into next?" "I do not intend to get into any scrape," answered Tom; and when he said it he meant it. "I shall treat Joe and everybody who likes him with the contempt they deserve. I wish I might never see them again. I tell you, fellows, I feel as if a big load had been taken from my shoulders. Matt will never again demand that I shall act as receiver for the property he steals, his vagabond family are safe under lock and key, I am free from suspicion, and what more could I ask for? For once in my life I am perfectly happy." But, as it happened, Tom was not long permitted to live in this very enviable frame of mind--not more than a couple of hours, to be exact. Of late he had stayed pretty close around the house when he was not at school. He could not bear to loaf about the village, as he used to do, for fear that he might hear something annoying. But on this particular day (it was Saturday) he was so light of heart that he could not keep still, so he proposed a walk and a cigar. He and his cousins did not mind smoking on the streets now, for they had long ago given up all hope of ever being admitted to the ranks of the Toxopholites. But their desire to belong to that crack and somewhat exclusive organization was as strong as ever. Another thing, they were not on as friendly terms with the drug-store crowd as they used to be. A decision rendered by umpire Bigden during a game of ball excited the ire of George Prime and some of his friends, and as the weeks rolled on the dispute waxed so hot that on more than one occasion the adherents of both sides had been called on to interfere to keep George and Tom from coming to blows over it. Ralph reminded his cousin of this when the latter proposed a walk and a cigar. "Oh, Prime has forgotten all about it before this time," said Tom confidently. "He has had abundant leisure to recover his good-nature, for the fuss began last fall." "Don't you owe him something?" "Yes; about fifty cents or so. But George isn't mean enough to raise a row about a little thing like that." Ralph and Loren had their own ideas on that point; and when they walked into the drug store and looked at the face Prime brought with him when he came up to the cigar-stand, they told themselves that if the clerk had had opportunity to recover his good-nature, he certainly had not improved it. He looked as sour as a green apple. "Hallo, George," said Tom, cordially. "How are you!" was the gruff reply. "Fine day outside," continued Tom. "Been sleigh-riding much?" "A time or two. What do you want?" "Some cigars, please." Prime languidly reached his hand into the show-case and brought out a box. "Chalk these, will you?" said Tom, after he and his cousin had made their selections. Without saying a word the clerk turned and walked toward the prescription counter at the back part of the store. Tom evidently thought the matter settled, for he gave Ralph the wink, lighted his cigar and was about to go out when Prime called to him. Tom faced around, and saw that he held in his hand something that looked like a package of bills. "I'll chalk this, because you've got the cigars and I can't very well help myself," said Prime, as he came up. "But the next time you want anything in our line you had better come prepared to settle up. Do you know how much you owe the house?" "I've kept a pretty close run of it," said Tom shortly, "and I guess seventy-five cents will foot the bill. These weeds are three for a quarter, I suppose?" "That's the price; but you owed me just four times seventy-five cents before you got these last three. There's your bill!" Tom opened his eyes when he heard this. He picked up the paper that Prime tossed upon the show-case before him, and saw that, if the figures on it told the truth, he had smoked much oftener than he supposed. "George," said he, as soon as he could speak, "I don't owe you three dollars." "You owe me three dollars and a quarter, counting in the three you just got," was Prime's reply. "I say I don't; and what's more to the point, I won't pay it. If you want to impose upon somebody and make him pay for cigars that you have smoked yourself, try some one else. You can't come it over me." "You mean to repudiate your honest debts, do you?" said Prime hotly. "Well, I don't know that I ought to have expected anything else of you. A fellow who will associate with tramps and thieves, as you have done ever since you poked your meddlesome nose into Mount Airy, is capable of anything." "Look here," said Tom, his face growing red and pale by turns. "Step out from behind the counter and say that again, will you?" "I can talk just as well from where I stand," was Prime's answer; and then he clenched one of his hands and pounded lightly upon the top of the show-case while he looked fixedly at Tom. "Perhaps you think because you were in the woods when these things happened that the folks in Mount Airy don't know all about them," he went on. "What things?" Tom managed to ask, while Ralph and Loren nerved themselves for what was coming. "What things!" repeated Prime, in a tone that almost drove Tom frantic. "Don't you suppose I know as well as you do that when Matt Coyle stole Joe Wayring's canvas canoe a year ago last summer, he did it with your knowledge and consent? I will say more than that. You urged him to take it." "Why--why, you--" Tom began, and then he paused. There was a look on Prime's face which told him that there was more behind; and now that he was in for it, Tom thought it would be a good plan to find out just how much the Mount Airy people knew of his dealings with the squatter. "It has all come out on you," continued Prime. "And I know, too, that it was through the information you gave him that Matt followed Wayring to No-Man's Pond and committed that assault upon him." "The idea!" exclaimed Tom, trying to look surprised, though inwardly he quaked with fear. "I never told Matt to follow Joe Wayring to No-Man's Pond. I never saw him while I was in the woods,--did I, boys?" he added, appealing to his cousins. "I know a story worth half a dozen of that," said the clerk, before either Ralph or Loren could collect their wits for a reply. "Some of the sportsmen who were stopping at one of the Indian Lake hotels saw you wait for him at a certain place for more than an hour; and when at last Matt arrived, you held quite a lengthy consultation with him." Tom was so amazed that he could not utter a word. Prime seemed to have the story pretty straight--so straight, in fact, that Loren did not think it best for him to deny it; so he hastened do say: "If all these ridiculous things which you say you have heard are true, how does it happen that they did not come before the Grand Jury?" "There were two good reasons for it," answered Prime. "In the first place, there was no one to appear against Tom; and in the second, Jake Coyle, who was the only one of the family tried before the Circuit Court, was not accused of stealing the canoe or of making an assault upon Joe Wayring. He was charged with breaking open the door of Haskins's cellar, and for that he received his sentence. If Matt Coyle had been on trial, there would have been other and more interesting developments. I tell you, Mr. Bigden, it was a lucky thing for you that he was drowned." "Now, let me say a word in your private ear," said Tom, who had had time to take a hasty review of the situation. "There is such a thing as wagging your tongue too freely, and it constitutes an offense of which the law sometimes takes notice. You don't want to publish the outrageous stories you pretend to have heard of me. They are false from beginning to end." "Why, bless your heart, I can't publish them," answered the clerk, with a most provoking laugh. "The facts are as well known to other folks as they are to me. Every man, boy, and girl you meet on the street knows them by heart." This astounding piece of news fairly staggered Tom. While he was trying to frame a suitable rejoinder a party of ladies came into the store, and the clerk hastened away to attend to them. This gave Tom and his cousins an opportunity to escape, and they were prompt to avail themselves of it. "Worse and worse!" exclaimed Loren, as soon as he could speak freely without fear of being overheard. "Tom, Tom, what have you brought upon yourself!" "I was afraid that something of this kind would be sprung upon me sooner or later," groaned the guilty boy. "Every girl I meet on the street knows all about it," he added, recalling the clerk's last words. "I don't believe it. Or, if they have heard about it, they don't take any stock in it, for I have received just as many invitations and gone to as many parties as I ever did. Can you two raise three dollars and a quarter between you? Then lend it to me, and I will get Prime's debt off my mind without a moment's delay." "That's the idea," said Ralph, approvingly. "Go now while those ladies are in the store, and he can't say anything more to annoy you." Loren had a five-dollar bill which he handed over, and Tom got it broken at the most convenient place, because he did not want to wait for Prime to make change. He laid the exact amount of his indebtedness upon the counter, pocketed his receipted bill, and left the store firmly resolved that he would never cross its threshold again. CHAPTER II. THE STRANGE WHEELMAN. Loren and Ralph often declared that if Tom Bigden's "cheek" had not been "monumental," he never could have lived through the winter as he did. He went everywhere, and although, to quote from the Canvas Canoe, he did not "shoot off his chin" quite as much as he formerly did, or take as deep an interest in things, he did not by any means keep in the background, as most boys would have done under like circumstances. As time wore on, he and his cousins began telling one another that Prime did not confine himself to the truth when he said that every one in the village knew how intimate Tom and Matt Coyle had been during the two last summers, for certainly he was as well treated and as cordially received wherever he went as he ever was. Joe Wayring and his friends always had a good word for him, and that went far toward satisfying Tom that they did not believe he had anything to do with the loss of the canvas canoe or with the No-Man's Pond affair. It was not long before their example and silent influence began to tell upon Tom, who more than once astonished his cousins by saying, in their hearing, that he believed it would be worth while for him to turn over a new leaf and try to lead a better life. Meanwhile Joe and his chums thoroughly enjoyed themselves in a quiet way, as boys always do when they have abounding health, clear consciences, and plenty of things around them to make life pleasant. In company with some of their school-fellows, of whom Tom Bigden and his cousins generally made three, they paid several visits to Indian River to fish through the ice for pickerel, going Friday night and returning Saturday. They saw any amount of sport during these short outings, and always brought home a fine string of fish; but they never drew so valuable a prize from the river as Joe and his friends did when they went there during the winter vacation. Nothing ever happened to mar their pleasure during these encampments, not even when Roy took Tom Bigden to task somewhat sharply for shooting a grouse after the first of January. Tom pleaded ignorance of the law, promised never to do it again, and so the offense was overlooked. But winter with its storms and drifts and sports passed away, and spring came with the usual alternations of driving rains and high winds which quickly cleared the lake of ice, and made the huge limbs of the grand old trees on the lawn sway about in every direction. Finally the croaking of frogs was heard from the marshes and the maple buds appeared; whereupon sleds, skates and toboggans were tumbled unceremoniously into some convenient corner, to be taken care of when other duties were not quite so pressing, and Joe and his inseparable companions shouldered their double-barrels and sallied out in search of snipe. But in due time hunting gave way to trout-fishing; and I have heard it said that Old Durability held his own, and captured quite as many fish as any rod that was brought into competition with him. Occasionally I heard Joe boast over some extra fine strings Fly-rod had taken for him; but as I was kept closely confined to my quarters I did not see them. At last my time came. As soon as the spring rains ceased and the mud disappeared and the roads became ridable, I was taken out for a spin. At first Joe rode with considerable caution, for he was afraid (so he told his chums) that I might "kick up and throw him"; but his skill came back with practice, and before a week had passed we were on exceedingly good terms. He devoted nearly all his leisure time to me, and although he kept up his membership with the various organizations to which he belonged, he was not unfrequently called upon to hand over a fine that had been imposed upon him for non-attendance of drills and parades. Of course the annual review of the Mount Airy Fire Department was not forgotten, but the canoe meet was, and for the first time in years the summer passed without a single struggle for the championship of Mirror Lake. The boys who were enthusiastic canoeists twelve months ago were earnest wheelmen now. As soon as the weather became settled a new question presented itself to Joe Wayring and his friends, and it was one that could not be decided at a moment's notice. Up to this time it had been understood that there was but one place at which their summer vacation could be passed, and that place was Indian Lake; but four weeks of comparative inactivity were not to be thought of this year. "Of course if we go to the lake we shall have more fishing and see less excitement than we did last year and the year before, because Matt Coyle will not be there to trouble us," said Arthur. "But rolling about on a blanket under the shade of an evergreen is slow work compared with a brisk run over good roads on a horse who never tires, and who asks nothing but a good rubbing, and no oats, when his day's task is done, to keep him in good trim. Camping out makes a fellow too lazy for any use; and I am not as much in favor of being lazy as I used to be." "It is quite the fashion for wheelmen to start off singly or in small parties, and travel through the country and see what they can find that is worth looking at," said Roy. "Let's send for a guide-book and go somewhere." "That's what I say," replied Joe. "But what guide-book shall we send for, and where shall we go?" "Through our own State, of course. Uncle Joe Wayring says that a fellow ought not to visit foreign countries until he has seen the wonders of his own." "Of course it is a settled thing that we three spend this vacation on the road," said Joe. "And when we start, I propose that we go prepared to stop wherever night overtakes us. Then if we can't find a hotel, or if the farmers object to taking in strangers who have no letters of introduction, we can camp by the road-side, and snap our fingers at people who live in houses and sleep under shingle roofs." "How about the grub?" said Arthur. "Oh, that'll be all right. We do not intend to go outside of a fence, and consequently we can purchase supplies anywhere along the road." "We mustn't forget to take our pocket fishing-tackle cases with us and--say, fellows," exclaimed Roy, suddenly interrupting himself, "I saw an advertisement the other day, of a Stevens rifle furnished with a bicycle case, and it struck me at once that it would be a nice thing to have along on a trip of this kind. If we have one or two of those handy little weapons in the party, we can shoot a mess of young squirrels as often as we get hungry between times." "I wish we had just one more year on our shoulders," said Arthur, "for then we could apply for admittance to the League of American Wheelmen. No doubt we would find friends in it who could give us pointers." "The year will pass soon enough, and when it has gone you may wish it back again," replied Joe. "It makes no difference if we are not in the League. Wheelmen are always good to one another, and I shall make it my business to bounce every strange bicyclist who comes to town, if I can catch him. If he has been on the road I will get some ideas out of him before I let up." Roy and Arthur said that was a suggestion worth acting upon, and the three made such good use of the opportunities that were constantly presented that by the time the school term was ended and the long vacation came, they considered themselves fully posted on all important matters relating to their proposed run across the State and back. The strange wheelmen who now and then ran into Mount Airy for a day or two proved to be a jolly, companionable lot of fellows, and full of stories of the road which they were as ready to tell as the boys were to listen to them. "Let me give you one word of warning," said a bronzed bicyclist, who had come all the way from Omaha on his wheel: "Do not neglect your training for a single day. I've no doubt that you can run all round this little burg without feeling any the worse for it, but you will find that three or four days in the saddle will test your endurance. I remember of hearing of a couple of wheelmen who started to run from Cleveland to Buffalo. They made no special preparation for the journey, believing, no doubt, that their short daily runs had sufficiently hardened their muscles; but when they reached their destination they were in a somewhat demoralized condition. They hung around the Genesee House for a day or two, and took the cars when they wanted to go home." "We'll never do that," said Arthur. "If our wheels take us away from home they must bring us back." "Well," said the Veteran, "you will find that it will take a good many motions with the pedals to carry you over a journey of seven hundred miles; but get yourselves in good trim before you start, inquire your way at every place you stop, steer clear of tramps, look out for skittish horses, keep off the tow-path, don't get mad if you meet some old curmudgeon who will not give you your share of the road, and you will come out all right and have a splendid time besides. You'll sleep as you never slept before, eat every crumb placed within your reach on the table, and handle things as though there was no break to them." "Why should we give the tow-path a wide berth?" inquired Roy. "Our guide-book says that the road from New London to Bloomingdale is knee-deep in sand, and advises all wheelmen going that way to take to the tow-path." "You'll find the unspeakable mule there," replied their new friend, "and he'll get you into trouble with the canalers. Now, a mule doesn't care any more for a bike than he does for the boat he is towing; but he pretends that he is very much afraid of it. I have seen them turn like a flash and run as if they were scared half to death: but it was all put on, for they were always careful to stop before they took up all the slack in the tow-line, and got themselves jerked off off the path into the canal. Of course that makes the steersman mad, and he tells you what he thinks of you and your wheel in the first words that come into his mind. Besides, a fellow on a bike offers so tempting a mark that no canal boy I ever saw can resist firing a stone at him. If he don't throw at you, it will be because he can't find anything before you get out of range." "If a fellow should try that on me I'd run him down and give him such a thrashing that he'd not trouble the next wheelman who came along," said Tom Bigden, who happened to come up while the conversation was in progress. "I wouldn't advise you to try it," said the stranger, with a light laugh. "In the first place you couldn't catch him, for as soon as he saw that you were overhauling him, he would leave the tow-path and take to the rocks; and while you were following him, if you were foolish enough to do it, some of his companions would run up and tumble your machine into the canal. The easiest way is the best." "I suppose we shall find the country people all right?" said Joe. "W-e-l-l,--yes; the majority of them are all right, but now and then you will find a mean one even among the farmers, who will tell you that your machines are a nuisance because they scare the horses; and if you meet such a man as that on the road, he'll take particular pains to crowd you off into the ditch. Take it by and large, the road is an admirable school for young fellows like you. You've got to take the bad with the good in this world, and make up your minds that what can't be cured must be endured." "So it seems that even 'cycling has its shadowy side," said Roy, as he and his friends walked homeward after thanking the Omaha wheelman for the advice and information he had given them. "Tramps and canalers must be avoided, and we mustn't get angry when some crusty old fellow pushes us off the road." "And there are the dogs," said Arthur. "But he didn't say anything about them, did he?" "No; but other wheelmen have, and I should think that in some places (in the South, for instance, where every granger keeps half a dozen or more worthless curs around him) they would be a big source of annoyance," said Joe. "But others have gone through all right, and we are going, too." "I wonder if Tom Bigden and his cousin are going anywhere," said Arthur. "If they are I hope they will take some route that will lead them out of our line of travel." The others hoped so, too. While they tried to live in peace with Tom, they did not care to have him for a traveling companion. Joe and his chums thought it best to heed the Omaha man's friendly word of caution, and if they had ridden hard before, they rode harder now. A ten-mile spin in the cool of the evening was an every-day occurrence. Of course they did not ride on Sunday, and, furthermore, they did not think much of a fellow who did. The morning set for the start dawned clear and bright, and after an early breakfast Joe Wayring waved his adieu to the family who had assembled on the porch to see him off, and wheeled gaily out of his father's grounds just in time to meet Arthur Hastings. Picking up Roy Sheldon a few minutes later, the three set off at a lively pace over a good road, their long journey being fairly begun. The trunks which contained most of their luggage had been forwarded to the wheelmen's headquarters at New London, with the request that they might be held until called for; but several handy little articles, which they might need at any time, were made up into neat bundles and tied to their safety-bars. Of course their lamps and cyclometers were in their places, and so were their Buffalo tool-bags; and each boy carried slung over his shoulder a bicycle gun-case containing a fourteen-inch pocket rifle. They were innocent-looking little pop-guns, but "spiteful things to shoot," and one of them came very near bringing the boys into serious trouble. "I wouldn't take a dollar for my chance of enjoying myself this trip," said Roy, as he wheeled into line behind his companions. "During our two last outings Matt Coyle and his interesting family made things quite too lively to suit me, but they'll not bother us any more. Now isn't this glorious? I remember of reading somewhere that if one has a hankering for wings, and feels as if he would like to glide out into space and leave the world with its cares and troubles behind, all he has to do is to buy a bicycle, and learn to ride it." Roy's companions must have felt a good deal as he did, for both of them had something to say about the "joys that no one but a wheelman knows," but their exuberance of spirit did not lead them to commit the blunder of riding hard at the start. When they drew up in front of wheelmen's headquarters in New London that night, their cyclometers registered thirty-six miles; not a very speedy run, to be sure, but then they had not set out with any intention of trying to break the record. In accordance with their request the hotel clerk assigned them to rooms "as close together as he could get them," and after seeing their wheels safely stored, the boys disappeared for a while to remove all travel-stains from their hands, faces and clothing. Then they ate a hearty supper, and adjourned to the reading-room to decide where they would spend the evening. A long time had elapsed since they last visited New London, and they had planned to remain in the city until they had taken a look at all the new things there were to be seen. That would take three or four days, they thought; but, as it happened, some strange events occurred which prolonged their stay, and threatened at one time to bring their trip to an inglorious close. "What's going on to-night, any way?" said Arthur, picking up a paper and glancing at the advertisements that appeared under the heading "Amusements!" "Some pianist, with an unpronounceable name, assisted by a celebrated baritone, is to hold forth at the Academy of Music." "Let's take that in," said Joe; and the matter was settled, for all the boys liked to listen to good music. Having plenty of time at their disposal Joe and his companions strolled leisurely along, taking note of all that passed in their immediate vicinity, and now and then stopping to look in at a show-window, especially if it chanced to be one in which bicycle goods or hunting and fishing equipments were displayed. That, I believe, is characteristic of people, both old and young, who are not accustomed to the sights of a big city--a sort of distinguishing trait, so to speak. At any rate the interest that Joe and his chums seemed to take in the well-filled windows attracted the attention of a spruce young fellow, who after following them for an entire block, and looking up and down the street as if to make sure that his movements were unobserved, stepped up to the nearest of the boys and tapped him on the shoulder. "Beg pardon," said he, smilingly, as Arthur Hastings turned and faced him. "You young gentlemen are wheelmen, I take it." Arthur replied that the stranger had hit center the very first time trying. "Members of the L.A.W.?" "No, but we hope to be next year. You see we are not quite eighteen yet. Do you ride?" "Certainly. Owned a bike ever since I was knee-high to a duck. Wouldn't know how to exist without it. Going anywhere? If you are, perhaps some of us can be of assistance to you." "You're very kind, and I'm sure we are obliged to you," said Arthur. "We've always found wheelmen ready to tell us anything we wanted to know." "Best lot of fellows in the world," replied the stranger, with enthusiasm. "And the best of it is, you will find them wherever you go. A wheel is a passport to the best society in the land. You don't live in the city? I thought not. You are from the country." "What makes you think that?" inquired Joe. "Didn't we get it all off?" exclaimed Roy, turning first one side, then the other, and giving his uniform a good looking-over. "I'm sure I used my brush the best I knew how." "Yes, it is pretty dusty, that's a fact," said the stranger. "I ought to know, for I have been on the road myself to-day. There's nothing about you or your uniforms to attract attention, but I knew you were from the country the minute I put my eyes on you, because you are so careless with your money. Look at that. If it hadn't been for me you would have lost it, beyond a doubt." So saying he held out his hand and exhibited a well-filled purse; whereupon all the boys instinctively thrust their hands into their pockets. "If it wasn't so full I should think it was mine. No, it does not belong to me, although it looks enough like my purse to be its twin brother," said Joe, after he had made sure that his modest sum of pocket-money was safe. "It doesn't belong to me, either," added Roy. "And I am sure it isn't mine," chimed in Arthur. "Where did you find it?" "Right down there, close to your feet," replied the stranger, indicating the exact spot. "It must belong to one of you, for I know it wasn't there when I stopped at this window not two minutes ago to look at those bicycle stockings. What shall I do with it? I've got to leave town on the first train." "Give it to a policeman," suggested Roy. "He'll take care of it and find the owner, too." "Well, you are a greeny, that's a fact," exclaimed the stranger, in tones that were very different from those he had thus far used in addressing the boys. "Can't you see that the purse is chuck full, and don't you know that the owner will be willing to give something handsome to get it back? There'll be a big reward offered for it in to-morrow's papers, and--" "I don't know who would be mean enough to demand a reward for restoring lost property," said Roy, with a slight accent of contempt in his voice. "I fail to see where the meanness comes in. What is there to hinder me from keeping the whole of it? But I was taught to be honest, and if I had time to stop over and take this money to the owner to-morrow, I should thankfully pocket the fifty or hundred dollars that he would be sure to give me, and think none the less of myself for doing it. Say," added the stranger, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, "I'll tell you what I'll do with you fellows, seeing you're wheelmen. I'll give the purse into your keeping for twenty-five dollars, and in the morning you can claim the reward. I haven't the least doubt that you will make a hundred dollars by it. Why, just look here," he continued, lifting the catch and exposing to view a big roll of greenbacks. "There's money, I tell you, and the reward you will receive for restoring it will pay all your expenses during a pretty long bicycle tour. I wouldn't think of trusting every one as I am willing to trust you, but seeing that you belong to the fraternity--eh?" Roy and Arthur were plainly becoming disgusted with their new acquaintance. They opened their lips to utter an indignant refusal of his generous offer; but before they could say a word, Joe Wayring spoke up. "I'll take you," said he, quietly. "All right," said the stranger briskly, while Roy and Arthur were struck dumb with amazement. "You are the most sensible man in your party--meaning no offense to your friends, _of_ course." "Why, Joe," began Roy, as soon as he found his tongue. But Joe shook his head and waved his open hands up and down in the air, indicating by this pantomime that his mind was made up, and it would be of no use for his friends to argue the matter. "It's all right," said he, when he had succeeded in silencing them. "If there are a hundred dollars to be made honestly, I don't know why we should turn our backs upon it. We've a long run before us, our expenses will be heavy--" "That's the idea!" exclaimed the now smiling stranger. "I don't suppose that your fathers are as liberal with you as they might be. I know mine wasn't, and that my supply of pocket-money was mighty slim when I had to depend upon him for it. Where's the cash?" "Hand over the purse," replied Joe. "Let me see first that you have twenty-five dollars to give me," was the answer. "I'm a wheelman," said Joe, severely. "And my machine is a passport to the best society in the land--eh?" "Of course; of course. But you see--" "And would I be admitted to the best society in the land if I were untruthful or dishonest?" continued Joe, while his two friends wondered what in the world he meant by addressing the stranger in his own words. "Hand over what you have found, if you want me to make a deal with you. We're from the country, you know, and consequently we are suspicious of every stranger we meet in the city. If you had your passport--I mean your wheel--with you now, why then I shouldn't be afraid of you." "Haven't I showed you that I am perfectly willing to trust you to return this big wad of greenbacks to the owner? Of course if I had the faintest suspicion that you would not give it to him--" "I was taught to be honest, the same as you were. Being a wheelman, I have no more intention of taking advantage of you in any way than you have of taking advantage of me." So saying, Joe thrust his hand into his pocket. Observing this movement, which seemed to be indicative of a desire on the young wheelman's part to have the negotiations brought to a close, the stranger stepped closer to him and slyly passed over the purse. "Be quick," said he, in a cautious whisper. "Some one might see us." "What if they do?" replied Joe, speaking in his usual tone of voice. "This is a fair, square and honest transaction, as I understand it. If it isn't--" "Of course; of course it is. But don't publish it. Be in a hurry, for a policeman might happen along." "Let him happen. We haven't done anything to make us afraid of a policeman." "There it is. Now hand out the twenty-five dollars." As soon as the fingers of Joe Wayring's right hand closed about the article in question, he took the other hand out of his pocket; but he brought it forth empty. "I am very glad to see that you are not afraid to trust a humble member of the noble fraternity of wheelmen," said he, as he lifted the catch and opened the purse. "Now, when I take this money to its owner in the morning, he will pay the reward out of what it contains, won't he? Well, I'll do the same by you, and you may trust me to tell him (I am a wheelman, you know) that I have already paid twenty-five dollars to--Hallo? Where are you going? A bargain is a bargain. Come back and get your money. Moses Taylor! Where did he go in such haste?" Joe might well ask that. The place whereon the strange wheelman had stood a second before was vacant, and he had disappeared from view. CHAPTER III. A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. The expression that came upon Arthur's face and Roy's when the sleek and plausible stranger hurried away from them, without waiting for the money that Joe was getting ready to give him, was a study. Joe gave them one quick glance, and then, utterly heedless of the fact that he was drawing the amused attention of many of the passing crowd, placed his hands upon his hips and laughed--not boisterously, as he would if he had been in the woods or even in Mount Airy, but none the less heartily. "Was--was it a bite?" inquired Arthur, as soon as he could speak. "I should say it was," replied Joe, wiping the tears from his eyes. "And you fellows thought I was taken in by it. Don't you read the papers, you two? Why, that game is old enough to be gray-headed No one ever tried to play it on me before, but I recognized it in a minute." "I confess that I don't see where the trick comes in," said Roy. "Don't you? Well, look here. The reason that fellow gave for turning the purse over to us was because he couldn't wait until morning to claim the reward that would surely be offered for its recovery, being obliged to leave town by the first train. Some folks would believe that story. The purse is fat enough to excite the cupidity of a dishonest man, who, nine times out of ten, will pay the sharper out of his own pocket, rather than open the purse and let him see what there is in it. Now, suppose I had given that fellow twenty-five good and lawful dollars of the Republic; let's see what I would have received in return." As Joe said this he turned out the contents of the purse, and Roy and Arthur discovered, to their no small astonishment, that what they had taken for a greenback was nothing more nor less than the advertisement of a quack medicine, warranted to cure every conceivable form of disease. It was wrapped around a roll of brown paper, the ends being turned over to hide it from view. "He thought I would give him the money he wanted out of my own pocket," continued Joe. "But when he found that I was not quite so green, and that his little game would be exposed in a minute more, and perhaps in the presence of a policeman, he took himself off." Yes, that was one reason why the sharper left without taking time to say good-by, but there was another that the boys knew nothing about. I must speak of it here so that you will be able to understand what happened afterward. Just as Joe Wayring was about to open the purse, the sharper cast a furtive glance over his shoulder and saw standing within a few paces of him, and intently watching his every movement, a short, thick-set man, dressed in a plain gray suit. It was evident that the two were not strangers to each other, for when the man in gray scowled and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, the sharper lost no time in getting out of sight. At the same instant Roy Sheldon turned his face that way, and the man in the gray suit, as if afraid of being seen and recognized, promptly wheeled about and looked toward the street. But he did not lose sight of the boys. He followed them to the Academy of Music, and sat within a few feet of them during the whole of the performance. "I'll chuck these things down there so that they can never be used to fool anybody," said Joe, when he and his friends had examined the purse and its contents to their satisfaction, and with the words he tossed the unlucky sharper's stock in trade into an opening between the grating on which they stood and the bottom of the store window. "I wonder what he thinks of country wheelmen by this time." "He was a pretty sleek talker, wasn't he?" said Roy. "Do you suppose he rides?" "No," answered Arthur, emphatically. "He is a professional swindler, and has no time to devote to riding. Besides, such chaps don't get into the L.A.W. Well, we've made a very fair beginning; only twelve hours from home, and one adventure to our credit already. I hope if we have any more they will all turn out as well as this one has." Having been shown to their seats in the Academy of Music, the boys devoted themselves to the business of the hour and forgot all about the sharper and his disappointment. Their quiet demeanor evidently excited the surprise of the gentleman in gray, and drew from him some remarks which were addressed to one who came in and took a seat beside him just as the entertainment was about to begin. "Takes it most too cool, don't he?" said the man in gray. "You're quite sure that there's no mistake about it? Bear in mind that I haven't seen him since his last escapade two years ago, and he has had time to change a good deal since then." "How in the world can there be any mistake about it?" asked the other, in reply. "Don't I see him every day, and oughtn't I to know him if anybody?" The first speaker drew a photograph from the inside pocket of his coat and looked at it intently, now and then raising his eyes to compare it with the profile of one of the boys in front, which was occasionally turned toward him. At length he appeared to be satisfied with his examination, for he replaced the picture, at the same time remarking, with something like a sigh of resignation: "It's a go if you insist upon it; but I want you to understand very distinctly that if any trouble follows the arrest, I am not the one to stand the brunt of it." "How is there going to be any trouble about it? Didn't the old man stand by you before? He did, and paid you well into the bargain. He'll do the same this time, and you may depend upon it." "But you say he isn't at home now." "I know it; but I am simply obeying orders, and my word is good till he comes." "If the boy has everything he wants, including all the money he can spend, and is as kindly treated and as well cared for as you say he is, I don't for the life of me see why he should run away from home," said the man in gray. "Boys don't generally desert home and friends without a cause. At least they didn't the first time I was on earth." "Well, this foolish fellow will do it every chance he gets, because he is determined to find his father. His uncle always tried to make him believe that his parents were both dead; but some gossip or another had to go and tell him different, and the old man hasn't seen a days peace of mind since. He lives in constant fear that the boy will give him the slip. This is the second time he has tried it, and some day he'll get off. Then there _will_ be a time, I tell you." "Why doesn't his uncle tell him where his father is, and let him go and see him?" "Oh, that would never do. Don't you know that the money goes with the boy? His father isn't fit to handle it, for he is a worthless scamp who would squander the last dime of it in less than no time. The law gave him to his uncle, who is also his guardian, and he intends to hold fast to him." "And the money, too, I suppose. Well, all I have to say is, that if I were in that boy's place my uncle would have to keep a double guard over me night and day. If I wanted to see my father I'd see him in spite of everybody. Besides, the boy is pretty near old enough to choose his own guardian." "Don't say that," whispered the other, hastily. "Whatever you do, don't say that where he can hear it. That's a point of law that he doesn't know anything about, and his uncle wouldn't like to have him posted." "Pooh! I shan't say anything. If I am employed to catch him as often as he runs away, so much the better for my pocket-book. I am too old to quarrel with my bread and butter." When the entertainment was ended Joe Wayring and his chums left with the others, and close behind them in the aisle came the man in gray and his companion. In the hall they encountered two dense living streams that came pouring down from the galleries, and in the crush that followed the boys became separated. Joe and Arthur found each other again on the sidewalk, but nothing was to be seen of Roy. As Arthur locked arms with his friend to prevent a second separation, they noticed a little knot of curious people gathered by the curbstone, and saw a close carriage driven rapidly away. "Move on!" exclaimed a burly policeman. "It's nothing at all except a fellow resisting arrest. Move on, please." The two boys would have been glad to wait for Roy; but as the guardian of the night emphasized his order by resting his club lightly against Joe's back, they concluded that they had better move on. They walked the length of the block and then returned, but no Roy Sheldon was in sight. There were but few people coming out of the hall now, but there was the watchful policeman with his ready club and his stereotyped command: "Move on, please. Don't block up the walk." "Roy has certainly come out before this time, and that blue-coat has driven him away," said Joe. "He knows the road to the hotel, and there's where we shall find him." The boys turned about and went down the street again, and the first thing that attracted their attention when they entered their hotel was the familiar uniform which they had adopted for their own--dark blue tights, white flannel shirt with blue trimmings, and white helmet. The boy who wore it was standing with his back to them, examining the register. "I never noticed before that Roy was so fine a figure," whispered Arthur. "Look at the muscles on his legs. He fills out those tights as though he had been melted and poured into them." Without saying or doing anything to attract the boy's notice, the two friends slipped up behind him, and Arthur threw his arms over his shoulders. "Now, you runaway, give an account of yourself!" he exclaimed. The effect produced by these innocent words was surprising in the extreme. In less than a second the supposed Roy Sheldon proved that he was quite as muscular as he looked to be. Uttering a cry of surprise and alarm he doubled himself up like a jack-knife and lunged forward with all his strength, and then almost as quickly jerked himself backward. By the first movement he came within a hair's breadth of throwing Arthur Hastings heavily on his head; and by the second he slipped out of his grasp like an eel. Then he straightened up and faced him with clenched hands and flashing eyes. "Don't touch me!" he began, fiercely. "If you or any of your hirelings lay an ugly finger on me again--" When he had said this much he stopped and looked hard at Arthur and then at Joe, while an expression of great astonishment settled on his face. My master and his friend were equally amazed. That was Roy Sheldon's uniform, if they ever saw it, but it wasn't Roy who was in it, although he looked almost exactly like him. There were the same clear-cut features, hazel eyes and wavy brown hair, and the same faint suspicion of a mustache; but they did not belong to Roy Sheldon. A second look showed them that. "Who are you?" demanded the young fellow, at length. "I think that is a proper question for us to ask you," replied Arthur, who, having never before been handled so easily by any boy of his size, felt disposed to resent it. "What are you doing in our uniform, we'd be pleased to have you tell us." "Your uniform!" exclaimed the stranger eagerly. "Are you from Jamestown?" "No. Never heard of such a place about here. Don't even know where it is. We are from Mount Airy." "Then we are even," said the stranger, in a disappointed tone, "for I don't know where Mount Airy is." "Then of course you live a good way from here." "Not so very far; not more than twenty miles, but it might as well be a thousand for all I know about this city. But you are wheelmen, of course. Well, now I wish--but say," added the speaker, as if something had just occurred to him. "Why did you grab me and call me a runaway?" "Because we thought you were. I mean we took you for a runaway from our party," said Joe; and then he wondered why it was that the stranger exhibited so much anxiety and even alarm at the words. "There is another fellow in our party, but we have lost him in some unaccountable manner." "Does he look anything like me?" "He does, indeed; so very much like you that when we saw you with our uniform on we took you for our missing friend. You are a little stouter than he is. That's all the difference there is in your figures; but to look at your faces a little distance away, any one not well acquainted with you would take you for twin brothers. How did you happen to choose that uniform? What club do you belong to?" "I don't belong to any club. How does it come that you happened to choose it when there were so many more that you might have taken?" "We made it up all out of our own heads," replied Arthur. "I can't say that I did. I copied it. The Jamestown boys wear it, and I have seen a good many bicyclists running along the road past our island dressed in the same way." "Your island!" repeated Joe. "Yes; my island prison, for that is just what it is to me. Let's go into the reading-room," said the stranger, seeing that the hotel clerk was becoming interested in their conversation. "I don't care to have everybody hear what I say." He moved away from the desk as he said this, and Joe and Arthur followed, lost in wonder. If there wasn't a mystery in this young fellow's life he was out of his head. That was plain to both of them. "My real name is Rowe Shelly," began the stranger, taking possessing of a chair at one of the tables and drawing two others alongside of him, "but when I registered I signed myself Robert Barton, and gave Baltimore as my home." "What made you do that? What have you been up to?" inquired Joe, while Arthur began to wonder if they had fallen in with another sharper who would presently make an effort to cheat them out of some money. "I haven't done anything that either of you would not do if you were in my place," answered young Shelly, if that was really his name. "To make a long story short, money is at the bottom of all my trouble. My grandfather, when he died, willed the most of his large property to my father, who was his only child, on condition that he quit the sea and settled down on shore with his family, mother and me. There was a step-son, who had assumed the family name in the hope of getting some of the money, but he was left without a dollar. Our home at that time was near some southern sea-port whose name I do not remember, for I was too young to know anything. This step-son, who had been dubbed "colonel" on account of his supposed wealth, happened to be at home when grandfather died, and what did he do but get possession of the will, spread the report that father had been lost at sea, take out letters of administration, turn mother out of the house, and have himself appointed my guardian. I don't pretend to know what trickery he resorted to, to bring all this about, but I know he did it." "Humph! I wouldn't live with such a villain," exclaimed Joe, who was deeply interested. He believed this strange story, and so did Arthur, who told himself that he must have been about half crazy when he suspected a boy who bore so close a resemblance to Roy Sheldon of being a sharper. "I don't live with him any more," replied Rowe. "I have left him for good; but of course I did not take the trouble to ask his consent." "Oh, that's what made you jump and look frightened when I caught hold of you and called you a runaway, was it?" said Arthur. "If your guardian finds you can he make you go back against your will?" "Certainly. He has often given me to understand that he will have full control of my actions as well as of my property until I am twenty-one years old." "Then he told you what isn't so," declared Joe. "I guess not," answered Rowe doubtfully. "At any rate, when I ran away from him two years ago he gobbled me with the aid of a policeman and took me back." "But you are older now than you were then," said Joe. "How old are you, if it is a fair question?" "I was eighteen last month." "Then snap your fingers at that guardian of yours, and tell him you are done with him." "That wouldn't make a particle of difference to him," replied Rowe. "He would have detectives after me, and I don't know but there are some on my track this very minute. That's why I registered under a fictitious name, and adopted this uniform. It is worn by so many wheelmen around here that it will not be likely to attract attention. But I am going to change it the first thing in the morning, trade off my Rudge safety for another wheel, and then put for the country and stay there as long as my money lasts." "Say, Joe," said Arthur suddenly, "he looks a good deal like Roy Sheldon, doesn't he?" "He is the very picture of him," answered Joe, surprised. "And you say," added Arthur, this time addressing himself to Rowe Shelly, "that your guardian put detectives on your track when you ran away from him two years ago, and that he has probably got them on your track to-night?" "I don't think I used those words, but that was what I meant," replied Rowe. "Why do you ask the question, and what makes you glare at me in that fashion?" "I didn't know that I was glaring at you," said Arthur. "But I wish from the bottom of my heart that you had changed that uniform for another a hundred years ago, or else that you had never adopted it, for it has been the means of getting one of the best fellows that ever lived into trouble." "Art," exclaimed Joe, starting up in his chair, "do you think--do you mean to say--" "Doesn't everything go to show it?" exclaimed Arthur, who was very highly excited. "His uniform is the counterpart of ours; he looks so much Roy that a stranger couldn't tell one from the other if he were to see them together; he has the best of reasons for believing that his guardian has put detectives on his track, and who knows--" "Good gracious!" cried Joe, starting up in his turn; "I never once thought of that." "What are you afraid of?" inquired Rowe, whose face betrayed the keenest anxiety and apprehension. "I hope you don't think that my resemblance to your friend has brought him into difficulty." "That is just what we are afraid of," replied Joe soothingly, while Arthur Hastings paced the room like a caged tiger. "But, of course, nobody can blame you for it. If one of the detectives you spoke of saw him, he probably mistook him for you, just as Arthur and I mistook you for Roy Sheldon. It's a case of mistaken identity, and that's all that can be made of it." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Arthur; "it is a clear case of abduction." "We'll have to see a lawyer about that." "Then let's be about it. What are we wasting time here for?" "Let us first make sure that Roy has been spirited away by somebody who thought he was Rowe Shelly. Say, Art, you remember the carriage that was driven away just as we came out of the Academy of Music, don't you? Well how do we know but Roy was in it, and that he was the fellow who resisted arrest?" "That's so," exclaimed Arthur. "Suppose we go right back and interview that policeman if we can find him." When Arthur proposed this plan Rowe Shelly's face grew white again. "That will be a dead give-away on me, won't it?" said he. "I don't see why it should be," replied Joe. "We're not going to tell any one that we have seen you. If you are afraid of it, go somewhere while we are gone, and then we can say, if we are asked questions we don't care to answer, that we don't know where you are." The young stranger evidently thought this a suggestion worth heeding, for when Joe and his companion left the room he followed slowly after them, first carefully reconnoitering the office to make sure there was no one there he did not want to meet. "What's your opinion of that fellow, any way?" asked Joe, as he and Arthur hurried along the street toward the Academy of Music. "He tells a queer story, but I really believe there are some grains of truth in it." "So do I," answered Arthur. "And if it turns out that Roy has been kidnapped, I shall believe it is all true. I wish that Shelly boy had been in Guinea before he adopted our uniform." "Or else that we had been there," added Joe. "He's got as much right to it as we have. Look here, Art. We mustn't let the Mount Airy folks know anything about this." "Not by a long shot. They'd order us home as they did when they read in the papers that Matt Coyle had tied you to a tree in the woods. If Roy is in a scrape we'll help him out of it and get well on our way beyond Bloomingdale before we say a word about it." The boys were not obliged to go all the way to the hall in which they had passed the evening, for they met the officer of whom they were in search at the lower end of his beat. Arthur thought he looked at them rather sharply as they came up, but he answered their questions civilly enough. "Policeman," said Joe, "will you please tell us what sort of a looking fellow it was who was put into a carriage in front of the Academy of Music, and driven away just as the performance ended? You were on duty there at the time." "Aw! go on now!" replied the officer good-naturedly. "He must have been one of your own crowd, for he wore the same kind of clothes." "What was his name?" asked Arthur, whose heart seemed to sink down into his boots when he heard this answer. "Aw, now!" said the officer again, "what's the use of my wasting my time with you? You know more about him than I do; but I will tell you one thing: you had better keep clear of him, or he will bring you into trouble. He's a bad nation. He stole a pile of money from his guardian before he ran away." "Not the boy who was put into the carriage, if it was the one we think it was," said Joe earnestly. "In the first place, he has no guardian, and he never stole a cent, for his father gives him all the money he needs. There's been a big mistake made here, Mr. Officer." "Haw, haw!" laughed the policeman. He turned on his heel and started back along his beat, but he did not shake off the boys. They wanted to learn something before they left him, so they kept close to him, one on each side. "But I assure you there has been the biggest kind of a blunder made," Joe insisted. "The wrong boy has been arrested. His name is Roy Sheldon, and he left Mount Airy with us this morning. Everybody there knows him and us, too." "No, I guess not," replied the policeman, with another laugh. "Bab's been in the business too long to make a mistake that might get him into trouble." "Who's Bab?" "Why, Bab--Babcock, the detective," answered the officer, in a tone which implied that he had no patience with a boy who could ask him so foolish a question. "The youngster had the cheek to appeal to me for protection, but I told him he had better go along peaceable and quiet, for it would only make matters worse for him if he didn't. I knew Bab, you see." "Well, this is a pretty state of affairs, I must say," exclaimed Arthur, his anger getting the better of his prudence. "Of course Roy resisted, as any other decent fellow would have done under the same circumstances; and when he asked for protection from one of whom he had a right to expect it, he was told that he had better go along if he wanted to keep out of worse trouble." "That's enough from you, young man," said the officer, shortly. "If you give me any more of your insolence I will run you in to keep company with that runaway and thief. Move on, now." Arthur didn't wait for a second order. He faced about at once and started back toward his hotel; but Joe stayed behind. He wanted to ask another question or two, although he hardly expected that the policeman would answer them. CHAPTER IV. ROWE SHELLY, THE RUNAWAY. "Just one more word, Mr. Officer," continued Joe Wayring, when he had seen his discomfited friend Arthur vanish in the crowd, "and then I will cease troubling you." "Be in a hurry, then," was the gruff rejoinder. "Don't say anything to confirm the suspicion I have that you are trying to make game of me, for if you do you will spend the rest of the night under lock and key, sure pop." "I assure you that my only desire is to gain some reliable information regarding my missing friend," answered Joe, choking back his wrath. "What precinct does this man Babcock belong to?" "He doesn't belong to any. He is a private detective, and works wherever he is called." "What agency does he belong to?" "Wilcox's; two-thirty-four Bank street." "Thank you. That's one point gained. I suppose he will report the arrest at his own headquarters, will he not?" "Very likely he will, and I'll report it to my captain." "I wasn't aware that a private detective could make an arrest without a warrant, except in cases where there is a fight or some other violation of the public peace. I thought he was obliged to call upon a policeman." "Well, wasn't I here?" exclaimed the officer, with some indignation in his tones. "I want you to understand that I know my business, and that you nor nobody like you can teach it to me. Move on. I've had enough of you." "All right," replied Joe cheerfully. "But first allow me to apologize for troubling you, and to thank you for your courteous answers to my questions." If this was intended for sarcasm it had no effect whatever upon the policeman, who walked off with a very dignified step, while Joe moved on to find Arthur Hastings. He discovered him in the reading-room of the hotel, holding an earnest conversation with a young fellow in citizen's clothes. It was Rowe Shelley; but when he left his uniform in his room he seemed to have left with it nearly all the resemblance he had once borne to Roy Sheldon. Joe could see now that the two boys did not look so very much alike after all. "I want to assure you of one thing, Wayring," said Rowe, as Joe seated himself in a chair by his side; "what that policeman told you about my stealing a lot of money before I left home, is utterly false. The little I have with me is what I have managed to save during the last two years out of my regular allowance. I have the best of reasons for believing that every cent there is in that house rightfully belongs to me, but I have never touched any of it except when it was given to me." "Are there any stores on the island?" inquired Joe. Rowe replied that there were not. The entire island was claimed by his guardian, who said he was Rowe's uncle, although he was no relation to him. Besides the family mansion, and the barns and other out-buildings that belonged to it, there were four tenement houses that were occupied by his guardian's hired help. "And I know they are not hired simply to work the place and keep the grounds in order," said Rowe bitterly. "They are employed to keep an eye on me, although they do not seem to pay any attention to me. When I had saved a little money and began laying my plans to skip out, there was not one among them to whom I could go for help, or whom I dared take into my confidence. I had to depend upon myself." "Then what was the use of a regular allowance of money if you couldn't spend it?" inquired Arthur. "I could save it for an emergency like this, couldn't I? Besides, whenever I wanted anything, I could send for it by some one who was coming to the city. Did you learn anything more about your missing friend? Hastings tells me that there is no doubt he was mistaken for me and sent away in that carriage." "That is what I think," answered Joe. "I know the name of the detective who arrested him, as well as the agency to which the detective belongs. It's Wilcox's, two-thirty-four Bank street, and there's where we must go the first thing in the morning." "Great Scott!" cried Arthur. "Can't we do anything for Roy before morning? Must he be put in a cell and--" "By no means," exclaimed Rowe. "Your friend will fare as well at my home as you will here at a hotel. Beyond a doubt my guardian's steam yacht was in waiting at one of the piers along the river side, and Roy is probably half way to the island by this time. Of course the detective will stay with him till he gets there, for fear that Roy will jump overboard or do some other desperate thing to escape from Willis." "Who is Willis?" "He is my guardian's superintendent and my jailer. At least, that is what I call him, although he is very friendly to me, and has seldom interfered with me. When I ran away two years ago, he followed me up and put the detectives on my track. I'd got away sure, if it hadn't been for him." "Of course if Babcock goes to the island he can't report the arrest to his superior before morning," said Joe, turning to Arthur. "So what's the use in going there (to the agency, I mean) before we can learn something?" "I don't see why you should go to the agency, or give yourselves the least uneasiness about the matter," said Rowe. "As soon as Willis has taken a good look at Roy, he will know that the detectives has made a mistake, and then he will lose no time in setting his prisoner at liberty and sending him back to the city." "We'll call upon Mr. Wilcox the first thing in the morning," said Joe, decidedly. "At least Art and I will, and you had best pack your bundle and dig out before daylight. As soon as your guardian finds out that--" "He isn't at home," interrupted Rowe. "He has gone away somewhere on business, and that's why I am here. I took advantage of his absence." "At any rate the search for you will be renewed when it becomes known that a mistake has been made, and if I were in your place I would not stay here. I think you were very imprudent to come to the city at all." "That's because you don't know what extraordinary precautions I took to make everybody think I was going the other way," replied Rowe. "But it seems that the tricks to which you resorted, whatever they were, did not work," said Arthur. "This man Willis, who probably runs things during your guardian's absence, must have come to the city or sent word to some one to be on the watch for you. If he didn't do one or the other, how does it come that Roy was molested? Joe, what course are you going to follow when you get to the agency?" "I'm simply going to tell the man in charge that one of his detectives has made a blunder and arrested Roy Sheldon when he thought he was arresting some one else, and ask him to undo his night's work and bring our friend back to us as quick as he knows how." "But he'll want evidence, won't he?" "I shall be provided with the evidence," replied Joe quietly. "Rowe, you wouldn't mind writing a couple of letters, one to your guardian's superintendent and the other to the detective, stating the facts, would you?" "Why--why, I don't see how I can do it without putting the detectives on my own track," stammered Rowe, who was very much astonished at this proposition. "I'd have to sign my right name to the letters, wouldn't I?" "Certainly. A fictitious name would be of no use to us, and we'll see that you don't get into trouble by it. Write the letters containing a full statement of the case, make yourself scarce about here without telling us where you are going, and then we can't answer any questions that may be asked us. If he don't do it," added Joe mentally, "the only thing I can do is to bring in some of father's business friends and Uncle Joe's to vouch for us, and add weight to our story. I am opposed to that, and I believe Roy himself would kick against it; for of course those friends would write the full particulars to the folks at home, and that would knock our trip across the State into a cocked hat." "If he doesn't do it," said Arthur to himself, seeing that Rowe still hesitated, "he will find that we are not to be trifled with. I'll denounce him as soon as I can find anybody to denounce him to. He got Roy into this scrape, and it is no more than fair that he should help get him out." "Is there no other way in which I can assist you?" inquired Rowe, after a long pause. "There is none that occurs to me just now," answered Joe. "Can you think of any?" "I can't think of anything. My mind is in a whirl, and has been ever since I left the island." "I thought as much," said Arthur, drily. "Otherwise you would never come to the city and put up at wheelmen's headquarters. Don't you know that this is the very hotel of all others that you ought to have shunned?" "I thought the very boldness of the thing would throw my pursuers, if I had any, off the track; and I believe it did, for I have seen no one to be afraid of since I came here. Do you think the chief detective will be ready to undo this work when you ask him?" added Rowe, addressing himself to Joe. "I think he will. I would, if I were in his place, for it would hurt my business to have it get out. If people knew that Wilcox kept such a blunderhead as that Babcock about, they would not be apt to give him much to do." "All right. It shall be as you say," exclaimed Rowe, getting upon his feet and hastening into the office, whence he presently returned with a couple of envelopes and as many sheets of paper in his hand. "Have you any influential friends in town?" he asked, as he seated himself at the table. "We've enough to make it exceedingly uncomfortable for those people on the island if they don't turn that boy loose in a little less than no time," replied Arthur, with emphasis. "Tell your man Willis to put that in his pipe." "He'll not need any such threat to quicken his movements," said Rowe, with a smile, the first one Joe had seen on his face that evening. "When he discovers that Babcock has not brought him the right boy, he will be only too glad to get rid of him. But I'll put it in." After a few minutes spent in rapid writing Rowe handed Joe the following, which was addressed to George Willis, Shelly's Island, New London Harbor: "You have probably found out by this time that the man Babcock, whom you notified to be on the lookout for me, has made a mistake that is likely to get him and every one concerned in it into serious difficulty. He has made a prisoner of Roy Sheldon, who lives in Mount Airy. He has friends there, as well as in this city, who will make it hot for you if you don't treat him well while he is on the island, and send him back with the least possible delay. Tell my guardian, when he returns, that I have grown weary of waiting for him to tell me where my father and mother are, and have set out to find them. I know I shall succeed this time, and then there will be a change of administration on Shelly's Island, or I shall miss my guess. "Now I should like to know what you mean by spreading the report that I stole a lot of money before I went away. You know it to false. If any of my money has disappeared (it is my money, mind you, and not my guardian's) I would as soon think you took it as to accuse anybody else. "If you haven't sent that boy back already, do it as soon as you read this, if you don't want to have some papers served on you." "Is that satisfactory?" inquired Rowe, as Joe passed the letter to Arthur. "Perfectly. If Willis fails to understand it, it will not be your fault. But why don't you get another guardian and put it out of this man's power to harass you with detectives every time you leave the island?" "I wish to goodness I could; but I can't. The law put him where he is." "And the law can take him out. When he was appointed your guardian he must have perjured himself if he swore that he was your next of kin. But here's a question: Do you know that your parents are still alive?" "No; I don't know it, but I think so. I do know, however, that my father was not lost at sea, as my guardian reported. Since that time people who know him have seen and talked with him. He was alive when I tried to find him two years ago." "Where does he live?" "Somewhere in the State of Maryland. On the coast, I suppose, for he is fond of the water, and has been a sailor all his life." "Now just think a moment," said Joe, earnestly. "Can't you see that you show a wonderful lack of _something_ in starting off on your wheel to hunt a needle in a haystack? You must remember that Maryland has an area of more than eleven thousand square miles, not counting in the bay, which has a coast line three hundred and eighty miles in length. You have set yourself something of a job, old fellow." "So I have," said Rowe nervously. "Do you know, I never once thought of that? There was but one idea in my mind, and that was to get safely off the island and away from New London, so that I could hide myself among strangers. Then, after the excitement had had time to die away, and my guardian had given up looking for me, I thought it would be the easiest thing in the world to run down into Maryland and find my parents. It wouldn't be too long a run, would it? I think I have heard of a man who went from San Francisco to Boston on his wheel." "No doubt you did; and that man, if you are thinking of the same one I am, is now on his way around the world. The run wouldn't trouble you, but finding the objects of your search would not be so easy as you seem to think. You have gone about it in the wrong way." "How would you act, if you were in my place?" "My first hard work would be to rid myself of that guardian," exclaimed Joe. "Haven't I told you that he was appointed by the court?" "Of course he was, or else he could not have slipped into the position. But you were too young to have any voice in the matter. You are older now than you were then, and have reached an age when the law says you are capable of choosing your own guardian." Howe became greatly excited when he heard this. He threw his pen upon the table, jumped to his feet, and paced the floor with long and rapid strides. "I hope you know what you are telling me," said he, as soon as he could say anything. Joe replied that he was sure of his ground. "How shall I go to work?" continued Rowe. "What shall I do first?" "Go to some honest lawyer, tell him your story just as you have told it to us, going rather more into details, and he will tell you what to do. If you give the case into his hands, he will probably advertise for your people. He'll not start off alone to hunt them up, unless he knows pretty near where they are; I can tell you that much." "And will the law really help me to rid myself of that man?" cried Rowe, as if he could hardly believe it. "And will I have my father and mother to live with me, and be free to come and go, as other fellows do? It seems too good to be true. Why didn't you tell me this long ago?" "I have been on the point of telling you half a dozen times," answered Joe, "but somehow I always got switched off on another track. You know it now, and if you remain shut up any longer deprived of your rights, it will be your own fault." "I shall not let the grass grow under my feet, I assure you," said Rowe, seating himself at the table and once more taking up his pen. "I shall not leave the city until this thing has been settled. How would it do to add a line to the letter I have written to Willis?" "Telling him what you intend to do?" exclaimed Joe. "I wouldn't. Spring it on 'em and take them by surprise before they have a chance to run away with any of the money. If the man who claims to be your uncle got his position by fraud, he wouldn't be above cheating you if he saw an opportunity to do it without detection." It was much harder work for Rowe to write this letter than it was to write the first, because he was so nervous and excited that he could scarcely hold his pen steady. But he finished it at last, and handed it over to Joe to read. It was much the same as the other, except that there was no allusion made to the story that Willis or somebody else had spread abroad, that Rowe had appropriated a sum of his guardian's money to help him in his runaway scheme. Then the letters were sealed, stamped and addressed, and Joe went out to put them into the box. He wanted them to reach their destination as soon as possible; and furthermore, he intended to allow the one that was addressed to the detective ample time to have an effect before he called at the agency on the following morning. They had done all that could be done that night, and when Joe went back to the reading-room he announced his intention of going to bed. "Then I will bid you good-by, for it is not at all likely that I shall be here when you come down in the morning," said Rowe, shaking each of them cordially by the hand. "If you only knew what a terrible load you have lifted from my heart by the friendly encouragement and advice you have given me, you would believe me when I say that I am glad to have met you, and sorry indeed that your friend got into trouble through me. Please say as much, to him when you see him, and add that I shall live in hopes of some day making his acquaintance. I suppose you can't tell me where to address you in case I should have anything interesting to communicate?" Joe was sorry to say that he could not; for although their proposed route had been marked out in their road-book before they left home, there was no certainty that they would stick to it. But he and his friends would like much to know how Rowe succeeded in his efforts to assert his rights, and a letter addressed to them at Mount Airy would follow them until it caught them. There were their cards. Good-night and good luck! "He's a simple-hearted fellow and totally unused to the ways of the world; and although he hasn't got much sense to boast of in some things, he can sling ink better than I can," said Arthur, as he and Joe ascended to their rooms. "Do you suppose he has ever been to school?" "No, I don't. He had a private teacher." "Then why didn't he make a confidant of him?" "Because he was afraid to. Perhaps his teacher was some poverty-stricken scholar, who was told to keep his mouth, eyes and ears closed as long as he remained on the island, and was well paid for doing it. More than that, the guardian was careful to tell his side of the story first, so that the tutor would be likely to take anything Rowe said to him with a grain or two of allowance." "It does not seem possible that such things can happen in this day and age of the world," said Arthur reflectively. "That fellow told us a strange story, and I shall do as I please about believing it until we hear from Roy Sheldon. Well, good-night. Call me when you get up." The first thing the two friends did when they went down to the office in the morning was to inquire for Robert Barton; for you will remember that that was the name the runaway signed to the register. "He left a message for you to the effect that he had decided to take the night boat for Bloomingdale," replied the clerk. "He will put in the time visiting friends there until you arrive." "That means that Rowe Shelly has gone into hiding somewhere in the city," said Joe, as he followed Arthur into the dining-hall. "Of course he wouldn't be foolish enough to say that he was going up the river on a steamer if he really meant to do it." "I don't know whether he would or not," answered Arthur, doubtfully. "He acknowledges to doing a great many foolish things. Putting up at this hotel was one of them." After eating a very slender breakfast the boys inquired the way to Bank street, and left the hotel to obtain an interview with Mr. Wilcox. About half an hour later a carriage was driven up to the sidewalk, and a boy clad in a bicycle uniform got out and hurried into the hotel; but I doubt if such a boy and such a uniform had ever been seen in the Lafayette House before. He seemed anxious to escape observation, for it was not until he had concealed himself behind one of the wide front doors that he stopped to pay his hackman. Then he stepped up to the desk and looked at the astonished clerk with his right eye. He wore a handkerchief over the other one, and there was a suspicion of blood on the handkerchief. One sleeve of his shirt had disappeared, and so had his cap; and when the clerk came to take a second look at him, he saw that, although his uniform was dry, it looked as though it had been dumped in the harbor--as indeed it had. "Well, well," exclaimed the clerk, as soon as he had in some measure recovered from his astonishment. "What in the world have you been doing to yourself, Mr.--ah--er--Barton?" he added, consulting the register to make sure of the name. "Did the steamer sink or burn up?" "What steamer? I don't know anything about a steamer." "Why, didn't you tell the clerk whom I relieved that you were going to take the night boat for Bloomingdale?" "Not much I didn't. I wasn't here last night, and furthermore, my name isn't Barton. There's my name, Roy Sheldon; and I came to town yesterday afternoon in company with that fellow and that one," said the new-comer, pointing out Joe's name and Arthur's. "Then, who was the chap who left a message for Wayring and Hastings?" exclaimed the puzzled clerk. "I'm sure I don't know. Did he beat you out of anything?" inquired Roy, thinking of the swindler who had tried to palm off those bogus greenbacks upon him and his friends. "Oh, no! He settled up all fair and square, and said he would wait for Wayring and Hastings at Bloomingdale. It couldn't have been your brother, could it? He looked like you." "Don't own any brother. Say," cried Roy, an idea striking him. "Wasn't it Rowe Shelly?" The clerk backed away from his desk and looked at Roy without speaking. "I don't know who else it could have been, for I was mistaken for him, kidnapped, and carried over to the island, and just escaped being taken to sea by the skin of my teeth," continued Roy, growing excited as he thought of it. "Rowe must have been here and scraped an acquaintance with my friends, or he wouldn't have left a message for them. I did say I would make trouble for somebody if I ever got ashore, but since I have had time to think the matter over, I am not as mad as I was. Did it blow much here last night and early this morning? Well, I was out in the whole of it." "Do you mean to say that that fool Rowe Shelly has run away from home again?" said the clerk, as if he could hardly believe the story. "He has run away, but I don't know whether he's a fool or not. I am inclined to think he isn't. Where are those friends of mine?" The clerk didn't know. They left the hotel after inquiring the way to Bank street, but he couldn't tell what business they had on hand, or how long they would be gone. "They'll show up when they get ready," said Roy. "In the mean time, if you will give me the key to forty-seven, I will go up and try to make myself a little more presentable." "What have you been doing to get yourself into such a plight?" asked the interested clerk. "The story is too long to be told in detail, and all I can say just now is that I have had a time of it. But if Rowe got away I don't care. I would go through as much more to help him, although he is a perfect stranger to me. Don't say anything about this, please, for I positively decline to be interviewed. I don't want my folks to hear of it, for fear they will order me home," added Roy to himself. "That's the plain English of the matter." So saying he took his key and went up to his room. CHAPTER V. ROY IN TROUBLE. You will remember that it was during the crush which occurred at the Academy of Music when the "gallery gods" came pouring down into the main hall from both sides, that Roy Sheldon became separated from his friends Joe and Arthur. While he was making his way slowly toward the door, he felt a hand laid upon his arm, and without turning his head to see who it was, supposing, of course, that one of his companions was close at his side, Roy took hold of the hand and drew it through his arm. When he reached the sidewalk he looked around to say something uncomplimentary regarding the rough fellow who had elbowed him rather too sharply in his haste to get out, and then he found that it was not a boy who had hold of him, but a man whom he had never seen before--a brown-whiskered man dressed in gray clothes. Thinking of the swindler whom he and his friends had encountered during the early part of the evening, Roy made an effort to twist himself out of the stranger's grasp, but found that he could not do it. The man had a grip like a vise. "Softly, softly," said he, in a low tone. "The game's up, and you might as well give in. You know me, and you know, too, that I wouldn't see you harmed. The carriage is ready and waiting." "I don't know you, either," said Roy, greatly astonished. "Let go my arm, or I'll black your eye for you." "If you strike me," said the man, who seemed rather surprised at this display of spirit, "I shall have to put the irons on you right here, and you don't want to make a scene before all these people. It wouldn't look well for a young fellow of your standing." Roy, too amazed to speak again, looked around for his friends; but they seemed to have disappeared very mysteriously. He was surrounded by strange people, the majority of whom seemed to be paying no sort of attention to him, while others looked on in wonder, and the rest laughed at him. An arrest in the crowded streets of New London was too common an occurrence to attract more than a passing notice. All this while Roy was being led slowly but surely toward a carriage, whose door was held invitingly open by a rather genteel-looking man who carried a heavy cane in his hand. When Roy saw that preparations had been made to convey him away secretly, he recovered his power of action and the use of his tongue at the same instant. He resisted with all his strength, and finally appealed to a policeman who, for a wonder, chanced to appear at that opportune moment. "What do you mean, anyway?" he exclaimed, giving his arm a sudden wrench, but with no other effect than to cause the man in gray to tighten his grasp until Roy could scarcely endure the pain. "Mr. Officer, do you see what this villain is doing? I ask you to interfere for my protection." [Illustration: The Arrest.] Roy, in his simplicity, supposed that the guardian of the city's peace would rush up and knock his assailant down with his club, or else take him into custody; but he did nothing of the sort. He strolled leisurely up to the carriage, saying, in a drawling tone: "I suppose it is all right, Bab?" "Of course it is," replied the man in gray, "or I wouldn't be in it. I am too old a dog to bark up the wrong tree." "It's all right, sonny," said the policeman, soothingly. "Go along quiet and peaceable and you won't get into trouble with Bab. He'll take good care of you." "But who is he, and by what authority does he commit this outrage?" demanded Roy, who was so angry and astonished that he hardly knew what he was saying. But his indignant words met with no verbal response. The policeman, who, according to Roy's way of thinking, ought to have helped him, lent effective assistance to his assailant by taking the boy by the other arm and gently pushing him into the carriage. The minute the two men released their hold of him, Roy jumped for the other side of the vehicle, intending to open the door and take to his heels, but the man who carried the heavy cane was there before him. "What's the use of cutting up like this?" said he, with a cunning smile that exasperated the prisoner to the highest degree. "One would think, from your actions, that you were going to prison, instead of to the pleasantest home that any boy of your size ever had. Why can't you stay there and be contented? There's many a youngster in this city who would be glad to be in your boots." As the man said this he mounted to a seat on the box beside the driver, and at the same moment his companion, who had got into the carriage and closed the door behind him, seized Roy by the arm and drew him away from the window. "Sit down and take it easy," said he, pleasantly. "The game is up, as I told you, and you might as well give in and wait until you see another chance to run away." "Run away!" repeated Roy. "Where from?" "Oh, come now. What's the use of playing off in that way? I know it's quite a while since I saw you, but I knew you the minute I put eyes on you. That chap didn't fool you, did he?" "What chap?" "Why, the fellow who tried to play the pocket-book game on you and those two wheelmen you picked up somewhere." "Did you see that operation?" exclaimed Roy, forgetting for the moment that he was being taken somewhere against his will, and that there might be disagreeable things in store for him. "I saw it all. I followed you from the Lafayette House--say, Rowe, don't you think you were foolish to go to that hotel where all the wheelmen stop? That was the very first place I went to find you when Willis told me that you had skipped again. What made you go there?" "Who is Willis?" asked Roy, in reply. "Oh, get out!" exclaimed his companion, in a tone of disgust. "If you want me to talk to you, you must talk sense." "Well, then, where are you going to take me?" "That isn't sense, either. _I_ might be liable to make a mistake, seeing it's two years and better since I last met you, but Willis ought to know you." "Who does he think I am?" "Oh, quit your nonsense. I am in no humor for foolishness. I was up all last night working on a case, and now I've got to stay up till I see you safe at home. I'm cross for want of rest." "You don't talk as if you were cross," said Roy. "I'll stop bothering you if you will tell me who you are, who you think I am, and why you kidnapped me as you have done." "Bless your heart, you won't bother me if you will only talk sense. I didn't kidnap you. I arrested you for a runaway, and there's my authority for doing it." As the man said this he squared around on his seat, drew back the lapel of his coat, and the light of a street lamp, which streamed in through the window at that moment, fell full upon a detective's shield. "My name is Babcock," he continued. "Of course you remember me now. Bab, you know; the same man who arrested you when you lit out two years ago. _Bab_, you recollect." "Never heard your name before, and never saw you, till you bounced me back there in the hall," said Roy, who told himself that he was learning something every minute. "Oh, come now," replied the detective, in an injured tone. "Everybody knows Bab." "Everybody except me, perhaps. But you never arrested me for the simple reason that I never ran away from home. It's much too pleasant a place for me to leave voluntarily, I can tell you. It is plain enough to me that you have mistaken me for somebody else." "But there's Willis," said the detective; and if Roy could have seen his face distinctly he would have had the satisfaction of knowing that he had aroused a train of disagreeable thoughts in that official's mind. "Who's Willis?" asked Roy, again. "Your uncle's superintendent; the man on top with the driver. He has known you all your life, and he says you are Rowe Shelly." "Well, I am not. I am Roy Sheldon, and my home is in Mount Airy. If you don't want to take my word for it, tell your hackman to drive us to the Lafayette House. You will find a couple of my friends there, and in an hour I can bring a hundred more from among New London's best business men." "If you have so many acquaintances in the city, why did you put up at a hotel? That statement will hardly wash." "It's the truth whether it will wash or not," Roy insisted. "Having just so much time at our disposal, we made all our arrangements before we left home, and we didn't want our friends to interfere with our plans in any way. You may save yourself trouble by going to my hotel." "No; I don't guess I would," replied the detective, with a yawn. "I'd a little rather trust Willis than you, for you know that you are full of tricks, and that you came within one of giving me the slip two years ago. Remember it, don't you?" Roy replied that it had slipped his mind entirely, and then went back to the point from which he started, hoping that by setting out on a new tack he could induce the detective to tell him who Rowe Shelly was, where he lived, and why he had run away from home. "If you are an officer, as you pretend to be, what is the reason you did not arrest that fellow when he was trying to play the pocket-book game on my friends and me?" said he. "You say you saw it all." "And I say so yet; but I didn't want to have anything to do with him just then, for I had bigger game in sight. That was you, and I was afraid you would recognize me if I showed you my face. So I just nodded to the swindler to let him know that I was on to his little performance, pointed down the street, and he took the hint and cleared out." "Oh, that's the reason he went off in such a hurry, was it?" exclaimed Roy. "We thought it was because he was afraid his game was about to be exposed. Now that I think of it, I believe I did see you standing near by, but your back was turned toward us." "No doubt. And you saw me when I took you in at Peach Grove two years ago, didn't you? Come, now, be honest." "I don't know where Peach Grove is, and I tell you I never saw you before to-night," replied Roy. "How far do you intend to take me in this close carriage?" "Not much farther. We're most to the pier now." "Then I've got to go the rest of the way by water, have I?" said Roy. "Why don't you let down the windows? It's suffocating in here." "It's pretty warm, that's a fact," assented the detective, taking off his hat and drawing his handkerchief across his forehead. "You'd holler if I put the windows down." "No, I wouldn't," protested the boy. "And that wouldn't be pleasant; because it would attract attention," continued the detective. "You'd be sorry enough for it after you'd had time to cool off, and, besides, your uncle wouldn't like to have so much publicity given to this matter. He wants everything done on the quiet, and I promise you it shall be, if you will do just as I say." "Who's my uncle?" asked Roy, believing that he had got upon the right track at last. "Why, your uncle; Colonel Shelly; the man who owns the island where you live," answered the detective. And then, as if he was angry at himself for giving his questioner this much satisfaction, he added: "I declare, if Job was here in my place he'd lose patience and be tempted to shake you. But go on with your foolishness. I've got to keep awake somehow." "Then let down the windows so that a fellow can breathe," said Roy, prompt to take advantage of this permission. "If I speak louder than my ordinary tone of voice it will not take you long to put them up again. There, now. That's better. You say you are going to take me to an island. Are there any people on it?" "A dozen, or such a matter, I should say." "Have they been long in Colonel Shelly's employ?" "Some have been there always, and some ain't." "That's all I want to know on that point," said Roy, who was greatly relieved. "Of course the minute those old-timers see me they will know that you have made a mistake." "Of course, they won't know nothing of the kind," replied the detective, angrily. "They know, and so does everybody else, that Bab understands his business and is not in the habit of making mistakes. Don't you build any hopes on that." "Colonel Shelly will know that I am not his nephew, won't he? I can at least build some hopes on that." "He ain't at home, and you know it as well as I do. If he was, you and I wouldn't be here in this carriage. You waited until he went off somewhere on business, and then you skipped." "Oh, that was the way of it. The colonel must be rich if he can afford to own a whole island so near a big city like New London, mustn't he?" "Aw! Go on now," replied the detective. "He's awful rich, and so are you. At least you will be one of these days." "That's news to me. I've seen the time when I thought I was well off if I had fifteen cents in my pocket. What's the matter?" inquired Roy, seeing that his companion was twisting uneasily about on his seat. "Don't I talk fast enough to keep you awake?" "You make me tired," answered the detective. "But I'll tell you one thing, young man. If Willis has made a mistake and you are not Rowe Shelly, you're a trifle the coolest customer I have seen for many a day." "I don't deny that I was frightened at first," said Roy, "but I don't feel at all uneasy now. Of course I know that you have made a mistake, for there's nothing that you or any one else can gain by running me off in this way." "Well, look here," said the detective earnestly. "If there's been a blunder made, you mustn't blame me for it. Blame Willis." "What's the name of the boy you took me for--Rowe Shelly? Do I look much like him?" "That's another question that makes me tired," answered Babcock. "Look like him! You _are_ him, otherwise you wouldn't be here." "But I say I am Roy Sheldon and nobody else, as I can prove if you will give me a chance. When we get to some place where we can borrow a light, I want you to take a good look at my face. You never saw a boy who looked exactly like me, and I'll bet on it." This was just what the detective had determined to do. The boy was altogether too much at his ease to suit him; he did not act at all as a disappointed runaway ought to act, and the fear that, for once, he had committed a blunder was almost enough to drive Babcock frantic. If he had made a prisoner of the wrong boy he could look for nothing but a prompt discharge from his employer, who would not be likely to recommend him to any other private detective bureau. But then he never would have made the arrest if Willis had not urged it, and repeatedly declared that he knew Rowe Shelly when he saw him, and that there was no chance for a mistake. And besides, there was the money that Rowe was said to have stolen from his guardian! To do the detective justice he did not believe that part of the story, but told himself that the superintendent had concocted it in order to make the case against the runaway as bad as it could be. "I don't much like this private detective business, and never did," thought Babcock. "If there is a mean piece of work to be done, something so low down that the city officers won't touch it, we are called upon to do it. I'll have a good look at this boy's face as soon as we reach the pier, and if I am not entirely satisfied with what I see there, I'll wash my hands of the whole business, and leave Willis to take him to the island and get out of the scrape afterwards as well as he can. That's what I'll do." Seeing that his companion had suddenly grown very unsociable, Roy settled back on his seat and thought over the situation. What would Joe and Arthur think when they missed him, and what would they do about it? When they found that he had not returned to the hotel would they become frightened, report the matter at police headquarters, and write to the folks in Mount Airy about it? The bare thought of such a thing alarmed Roy, who was almost tempted to burst open the door and take to his heels. "But that plan wouldn't work at all," said he to himself. "Babcock would have me hard and fast before I could get fairly on my feet. I must wait until we reach the pier, and then I'll make a dash, if they give me the least show. If Joe and Arthur write home about it, that will be the end of our trip, and I'll pick a quarrel with the pair of them as soon as I can find them." But, after all, Roy did not borrow a great deal of trouble on this score. His friends had never yet "gone back on him," and Roy did not believe they would do it now, when there was so much at stake. While these thoughts were passing through his mind, the carriage, which had been driven at as high a rate of speed as the hackman thought he could venture upon without attracting the attention of the police, turned off the main thoroughfare into a narrow street, then into another, and finally into a third, which was so dark and gloomy that the street lamps looked as though they were shining through a fog. Presently it came to a standstill. "Here we are," said Babcock, with alacrity. "Jump out. Not that side, but this one. Aha! You'll bear watching, won't you?" But Roy could not have made his exit through the door toward which he turned, without bringing on a useless struggle with his captors: for the minute the carriage stopped, the man Willis clambered down from the box and appeared at the window. "Rowe Shelly must be a slippery fellow," thought Roy, as he faced about and followed the detective, "and no doubt he has given these two men a lesson that they will not soon forget. They won't let me have the ghost of a chance to run." When Roy got out of the carriage he saw that it had stopped at the end of a pier which jutted out into the harbor for a hundred feet or more. There was no possible chance for escape, unless he were reckless enough to jump into the water and trust himself to the tide, which was running out at a rapid rate, but his captors were so very much afraid of him, that they kept fast hold of both his arms while they marched him to the farther end of the pier, where they found a natty little yacht with steam up, ready for a start. "Do you intend to take me away on this thing?" inquired Roy. "Well, before you do it, hadn't you better get a lantern and satisfy yourselves that you have made no mistake in the boy? I tell you I am not Rowe Shelly. If he has any good reason for running away from his uncle, I hope he is a thousand miles from here at this moment, and that you will never catch him. But if you don't quit fooling with me here and now, I'll make trouble for you as sure as I live to get ashore." "I'm used to such talk as that," said Willis, with a laugh. "Yes," he added, in reply to a low question from a man on the forecastle who proved to be the captain of the yacht, "we've found him already. Had no trouble at all in tracking him. Are you ready? Then cast off and--" "Hold on," interrupted the detective. "I want to say a few words to you in private, Willis. Captain, can this boy be locked in the cabin with any certainty that we shall find him there when we want him?" The man appealed to said he was sure of it; whereupon Roy was conducted down the companion ladder, and into an elegantly furnished little room in the stern of the yacht. The hanging lamp gave out a brilliant light, and Roy, believing that the detective would never have a better opportunity to take a good look at his face, placed his hands on his hips and stood in such a position that the rays from the reflector fell full upon him. "Now what do you think?" said he. "Can you truthfully say that you ever saw me before?" "Why, what's the matter?" inquired Willis, while Roy was sure he looked somewhat concerned and anxious. "What are you talking about, Rowe? You don't pretend to deny yourself, do you? If that's your scheme, it won't work." "Of course I do not mean to deny my identity," replied Roy. "But I do say I am not Rowe Shelly." "What nonsense!" exclaimed Willis. "Shove off, captain. We are wasting time here. Mr. Babcock will go to the island with us, as he did before." "Don't be in a hurry, captain," interposed the detective. "It is possible that I shall want to stay ashore. Now, Willis, come on deck and tell me who is to pay me for this night's work." Willis knew, and so did Roy Sheldon, that this was simply a ruse on Babcock's part to take the superintendent out of the prisoner's hearing so that he could speak his mind to him without fear of being overheard. I afterward learned all about that rather stormy interview, and so I will tell of it here in its proper place. "Look here," said Babcock, as soon as he and Willis had gained the deck. "You have brought me into a pretty mess, and I am going to get out of it with the least possible delay. I am as near the island as I am going to-night." "You--you don't suppose--" began Willis. "Yes; I mean to say that you have made me arrest the wrong boy," exclaimed the detective, as if he read the thoughts that were passing in his companion's mind; "and if you don't know it, too, your face belies you. What do you say, captain? Who is that boy we just left in the cabin?" "Why, it's Rowe Shelly, of course. Who else should it be?" "Did you take a good look at him?" "I did. I would know him if I had met him in Europe." "There, now," said Willis, angrily, "I hope you're satisfied. I've heard that boy talk. He can almost make one believe that black is white, and I can see plain enough that he tried his blarney on you while you were in the carriage with him. You wouldn't have made the arrest if it hadn't been for me." "You're right, I wouldn't. I believed you when you said you knew the boy, and now I've got into a nice pickle by it. I hope the colonel will give you your walking-papers the minute he hears of it." "Oh, he dassent do that. I know too much about--" began Willis, and then he stopped, frightened at what he had said. "You know too much about him and his affairs, do you?" exclaimed Babcock, finishing the sentence for him. "That's what I have thought for a long time." "I didn't say so," replied Willis, hastily, at the same time taking the detective by the arm and leading him out of earshot of the captain of the yacht. "You ought not to have spoken so plainly in the presence of a third party. I tell you it's all right." "And I tell you I am sure it isn't. If you will take my advice, you will bring that boy out of the cabin and show him the way to his hotel at once. If he is a stranger in town he could not find his way there alone on a dark night like this." "I wouldn't do that for no money," said Willis, alarmed at the mere mention of such a thing. "Just see the trouble I'd get into." "You'll get into more if you don't do as I say. Well, good-by. I'm off." "Won't you see Rowe safe to the island?" "Not by a great sight. I'll have no more to do with the case." So saying the detective jumped ashore, and Willis was left to his own discretion. CHAPTER VI. ANOTHER SURPRISE FOR ROY. "Well, this is a pretty way to treat a fellow, I do think," soliloquized the puzzled and anxious superintendent, as he stood on the yacht's deck and watched the retreating form of the detective until it was swallowed up in the darkness. "He gets me into difficulty and then clears out, leaving me to sink or swim, he don't care which. What do you say, captain?" he added, turning to the master of the yacht, who came up when he saw Babcock spring ashore. "You're quite positive that the boy below is Rowe Shelly, and nobody else?" "What's the matter with you and Babcock?" asked the captain, testily. "You act like a couple of--I don't know what." "And that's the way I feel," replied Willis. "Babcock has been worked upon in some mysterious way, and now he's gone away and left me to bear the brunt of the whole thing alone." "Well, wasn't that what you expected to do when you got back to the island?" inquired the captain. "His guardian being absent, you will have to take full charge of Rowe until he returns. That's what you did the last time he ran away, and you never made any fuss over it. I know it is disagreeable business, this standing guard over an uneasy fellow who won't stay where he is put, but seeing that we are well paid for it, and know that it is for the boy's best good, where's the harm?" "But Babcock seems to think that Rowe has slipped through our fingers, and that we have brought back the wrong boy." The captain made a gesture of impatience but said nothing. "All right," exclaimed Willis. "Cast off the fasts and get under way as quickly as possible." "Where's his wheel?" inquired the captain. "I didn't see you bring it aboard." "We didn't stop for it," answered Willis, "for the youngster was in fighting humor, and would have drawn a crowd about us if we hadn't hustled him into the carriage just as we did. We'll have to send for it when he gets ready to tell us where he left it." "Don't he feel inclined to talk? That isn't at all like Rowe, who usually has gab enough." "Bless you, he's nothing but talk; but the trouble is, he won't tell the truth. He has hit upon a new plan this time. He says he is somebody else, and sticks to it. But you know him and I know him, even if Babcock doesn't; so it's all right. Now get underway. It _must_ be all right, although I confess that Babcock frightened me by talking and acting as he did," said Willis, as the master of the yacht hastened forward to take his place at the wheel. "I had a good view of him while he stood in front of that window with those two young wheelmen; I sat almost within reach of him during the entire evening; and I've had several good looks at him since. Babcock had all the chances he wanted to compare his face with the photograph I gave him, and he didn't think there was anything wrong until after Rowe had had opportunity to talk to him. I'd give something handsome to know what passed between them while I was on the box with the driver; then, perhaps I should know what to do. I ought to have stayed with them, but I never dreamed of anything like this. However, I shall be prepared for any emergencies. I'll take Tony into my confidence just as soon as I can get Rowe into the house and up to his room." So saying, the superintendent faced about and went into the cabin to see what the prisoner thought of the situation. To his surprise he found him reading a paper he had taken from the table. According to Willis's way of thinking, that was a bad sign. Why didn't he walk the floor and shake his fists in the air and utter threats, and in various other ways act as if he had taken leave of his senses? That was the way he did the last time he was captured, and Willis could not understand why he didn't do so now. "Well," said Roy, laying down his paper and squaring around in his chair. "What conclusion did you and Babcock come to?" "What conclusion?" repeated Willis, innocently. "Yes. You went on deck to hold a private confab, and I should like to know what came of it. It is a matter in which I am somewhat interested." "I don't see how you can be. Bab wanted to know who was to pay him for interfering with your plans, and I told him he would have to go to your uncle for that. There was nothing private about it." "I suppose I am at liberty to believe that or not," replied Roy. "Babcock knows that when he caught me he didn't get the boy he wanted, and you know it, too. I don't say you knew it when you took me away from my friends in front of the hall, but you do now!" Roy said this at a venture, and, no doubt, would have been greatly amazed if he had known just how close he had shot to the mark. He was sitting a little to one side of the reflector, so that the rays from the hanging lamp fell squarely upon him, and now that Willis had leisure to look at him without fear of interruption from a crowd of curious by-standers, the cold chills began creeping over him. There was a wonderful resemblance, it is true, between the prisoner and Rowe Shelly, and yet Willis could not help seeing that they were different in a good many particulars. Roy had a way of holding his head, and even of sitting in his chair, which were unlike anything the superintendent had ever noticed in Rowe. How earnestly he wished that Roy would own up, confess that he was the runaway, and thus put an end to his suspense! "Where's Babcock now?" asked Roy, after a short pause. "On deck," answered Willis, who did not think it would be good policy to tell the prisoner just what had passed between himself and the detective. "It always makes him sea-sick to remain in a close cabin when on the water, and so he stayed where he could get the breeze." "It works that way with me, too," said Roy; but Willis could not be made to believe it. "It won't do, Rowe," said he, with something that was intended for a good-natured smile. "I've seen you on the water too often, and you can't crowd any such story down me. I wouldn't mind allowing you to go on deck if I could trust you; but I have learned that I can't. Your word isn't good for anything." "Your remarks may apply to Rowe Shelly, but I want you to understand that they don't hit me. My word is always good. But what's the use of talking?" said Roy, again, picking up the paper. "I've told my story to the detective, who probably told it to you, and in a few hours you will learn that it is a true one. Where has Colonel Shelly gone, and when is he expected to return?" Willis answered that he didn't know. "It's immaterial," said Roy. "When my friends come to the island after me, as they surely will as soon as they find out where I have been taken, I shall go ashore with them, no matter whether the colonel is there or not." It was right on the point of Roy's tongue to add: "And you will go also, for I don't intend to submit to treatment of this sort." But he did not utter the words. It came into his mind like a flash, that possibly this man Willis might have it in his power to shut him up in some strong room on the island, and if that was the case Roy did not wish to make him angry. "You still stick to it that you are not Rowe Shelly, do you?" exclaimed Willis, trying to look and speak as if he were becoming indignant, though the effort was a sorry failure. He was frightened, and Roy saw it plain enough. "You might as well give up, for everybody who has ever seen you knows who you are." "Oh, I'll give up because I can't well help myself," replied Roy. "In fact I have a curiosity to see the thing out, and to know what you and Babcock will do when you find that you have put your feet in it. So long as I get good treatment, a soft bed to sleep in--I have been in the saddle nearly all day, and consequently I feel rather tired--and plenty to eat, I would just as soon--indeed, I would rather stay on an island to-night than sleep at my hotel. I never did like a city hotel, and if I were sure that my friends are not worrying about me, my mind would be quite at rest. Hal-lo! What have I said now, I wonder." "By the piper that played before Moses, that ain't Rowe Shelly," said Willis, to himself, as he sprang from his chair and bolted up the companion-ladder. "Babcock was right, and I'm in for it, sure enough. Rowe's got sublime cheek, but it can't compare with this fellow's. Now what shall I do?" It was plain as daylight to me, when I heard of it, that there was but one course of action open to the superintendent, and that was the honest and manly one. When he became convinced, or even suspected, that he had made a blunder, the best thing he could do was to order the yacht back to the pier and conduct Roy Sheldon to his hotel with such apologies as he could think up on the spur of the moment. But, unfortunately, Willis had never been known to do an honest and manly thing. Probably he never thought of it. He wasn't above a mean act, and when detected in it generally did something meaner to cover it up. And that was what he decided to do in this case. He did not go into the cabin again, but paced the deck, lost in thought. He turned over in his mind a dozen wild schemes for ridding himself of the prisoner in case he did not prove to be the boy he wanted, but through it all he clung to the hope that he was Rowe Shelly, and nobody else. It couldn't be possible, he told himself, that there was a boy in the world who looked enough like the runaway to deceive everybody at first sight. At any rate, it would not take long to settle the matter now, for here was the island close at hand. There were several people on the jetty awaiting the yacht's return, and every one of them would be able to tell at a glance whether or not he had brought Rowe Shelly with him. "I'll not so much as drop a hint that I am afraid there is something wrong," said Willis, to himself. "I'll just walk him ashore as if it was all right, and leave them to find a difference between him and the runaway, if they can. If they don't say anything, I shall know that I have been a fool for allowing Babcock's words to have so much weight with me." When the yacht whistled for the landing, Willis stuck his head down the companion-way and told Roy he might come on deck; a privilege of which the weary prisoner was prompt to avail himself. He had been asleep, with his head resting on the table, and now all he cared for was to get to bed. It would be time enough, he thought, to look into his surroundings and inquire about Rowe Shelly and his reasons for leaving home, after he had had a good night's rest. But by the time the yacht was stopped at the jetty and the lines made fast and the gang-plank shoved out, he was wide awake. "He's come," said somebody on the jetty. "Don't you see his white shirt and cap? That's him. That's Rowe." "Now this is mighty strange," said Roy to himself. "These folks appear to be friendly to the boy I am supposed to be, and yet they don't want to have him run away, although he must have good reasons for it, having tried it twice. When they get a closer view of my face we'll see how quick they will sing another tune." But, to Roy's surprise, they didn't do anything of the sort. They crowded about him, as he walked down the staging by the superintendent's side (for a wonder the man did not take hold of his arm, as Roy expected him to do), all eager to shake him by the hand. They even gazed into his face, which was plainly visible, owing to the bright light emitted by the blazing torch that was standing among the rocks at the end of the jetty. The climax was reached when a motherly-looking woman, who was waiting for them at the shore end of the jetty, threw her arms around the neck of the startled boy and kissed him on the nose before he knew what she was going to do. "Bless his heart, has he come back again?" she exclaimed, holding him off at arm's length so that she could get a good view of him. "Come right into the house and get a good supper before you go to bed. I know you must be tired to death, and don't suppose you have had a bite to eat since you went away, seeing that you did not take any money with you." "Let us go in, Mrs. Moffat," interrupted Willis, who grew nervous when the housekeeper began talking about money. "I'll tell you what's a fact: this is getting serious," soliloquized Roy, as he moved toward the house in company with Willis and Mrs. Moffat, one walking on each side of him. "But I don't know that I care so very much. I'll see how it looks in the morning." Then aloud he said: "I don't want anything to eat, Mrs.--beg pardon, I didn't quite catch the name." "Good laws! Just listen at the child," exclaimed the housekeeper, throwing up her hands and looking the picture of astonishment. "He's been going on that way ever since we found him, Mrs. Moffat," said Willis in a low tone. "He don't know me nor Babcock nor the captain nor nobody. He acts as if he had lost all his senses." "That's just what I have been afraid of for a longtime," answered the housekeeper in a loud, shrill whisper. "No boy who was in his right mind would want to run away and leave a kind uncle and a beautiful home like this. I've suspected it, and so have others whose names I could mention." Willis started when he heard this, and so did Roy. The woman's words suggested an idea to both of them. "I've sense enough to know that I am not hungry," said Roy. "All I ask is to get to bed and be left alone for the rest of the night. I'm tired and sleepy; and besides, I want a chance to think about this business," he added, to himself. The housekeeper hastened to assure him that it should be just as he said, and a few minutes later Roy was conducted up the front steps and into a wide hall from which winding stairs led to the floor above. Fortunately, his guides did not leave him here, for if they had, Roy would not have known what to do. No doubt he would have confirmed the housekeeper's suspicions by requesting her to show him to his room. But she and Willis did that without being asked. They led him up-stairs to a handsomely furnished apartment, and even accompanied him into it. There was a student lamp on the center-table, a bright wood-fire burning in the grate (although it was summer, the breeze that came off the Sound was raw and chilly), and everything looked cheerful and inviting. "I haven't touched the room since you went away, except to slick it up a little," said Mrs. Moffatt. "Now, is there anything I can do for you before I say good-night? Hadn't you better let me bring up a little lunch for fear that you may get hungry before morning?" "I don't care for any, because I never eat during the night. When I once fall asleep, I don't know anything more till daylight comes. There's nothing you can do, thank you," replied Roy. The motherly housekeeper was evidently disappointed because the boy did not make some complaints or order something, for she lingered as if waiting for him to speak again, while Willis walked the floor with his hands behind his back. He was lost in a brown study from which he presently aroused himself to say: "Very well. If there is nothing we can do for you, we'll bid you good-night. If you want anything you know how to get it." "I'll be shot if I do," said Roy, mentally. "Rowe Shelly must be a queer chap if he has to be waited on during the night. If that's the way he has been brought up he had better stay at home as long as he can, for he'll have to take hard knocks when he gets out into the world. I declare, he lives in clover, does he not?" added Roy, glancing around at the expensive furniture, the pictures on the walls, the ornaments on the mantel, which included the model of a full-rigged ship, and the well-filled book-cases that stood on each side of the fire-place. Through an open door at the farther end of the apartment, Roy caught a glimpse of the runaway's bed-room. "But I'll not go in there," said he, to himself. "I'll move this sofa pillow to the lounge, borrow a book, if I can find one to suit me, and read myself to sleep. So long as I am treated like one of the masters of the house instead of an interloper, I don't see why I shouldn't make the best of the situation. Of course Joe and Art will be along in the morning, and they will be able to prove to Willis's satisfaction that I don't belong here. I knew it would be of no use to argue the matter with Mrs. Moffatt after Willis told her I was out of my head." While Roy talked to himself in this way he ran his eye over the volumes in one of the book-cases, took out "Gulliver's Travels," and lay down upon the lounge; but before he had read half a page the hand that held the book gradually fell away from his face until the volume rested on the floor by his side. There was no sham about his weariness. His thirty-six mile ride had tired every muscle in his body, and Roy was fast asleep. Would his slumber have been as peaceful as it was if he he had known what was going on outside the house? When Roy awoke it was with a start and the indescribable feeling that sometimes comes over a sleeper when a stranger unexpectedly enters his room. He looked around, and sure enough he was not alone. Willis was standing a little distance away, and Roy was almost certain that he saw him turn and signal to another man, who whisked out of the door before he could obtain a fair view of him. It might have been nothing but the vagary of a dream, but still Roy thought it worth while to speak of it. "What do you want now?" he demanded. "Why do you come in without awaking me, and who was that fellow who just went out?" "What fellow?" asked Willis, answering the last question first, and at the same time facing about and looking at the door, which was still slowly and softly closing. "That's what I asked _you_," replied Roy, springing off the lounge, jerking the door wide open and looking out into the hall. There was no one there. If there had been Roy certainly would have seen him, for the lamps were still burning. "Why, what's the matter?" inquired Willis, as if he thought this a very strange proceeding on Roy's part. "What are you afraid of?" "I don't know that I am afraid of anything; but I'd like to have you to tell me who came into this room with you, and why you are here. I told you I shouldn't want anything to-night." "I thought you might, and that's why I came," replied the man. "There is no one with me. I am alone." And then, as if he had just thought of the object of his visit, he continued: "I was sure you would like to hear some word from your friends--the two who were with you when that bunco-steerer tried to cheat you out of some money. I know I might have waited until morning, and since you were sleeping so soundly, I am sorry I didn't. I have found out--" "Great Scott, man!" interrupted Roy, who could scarcely believe that he heard aright. "Don't talk about waiting till morning when you have good news to tell. Where are my friends? Are they here--on the island? How did you get word from them? Go on, please, and tell me what you have found out." If Willis had not already received as good evidence as he wanted that the boy before him was not Rowe Shelly, he had it now. The real runaway could not have talked and acted as Roy did at that moment. "I heard of them through Babcock," Willis began. "Then he didn't come to the island with us, did he? I wondered why I did not see him." "No. He left me at the pier and went to the city to make inquiries about you. He went straight to the--the--" "Lafayette House," prompted Roy, when the man hesitated. "That's the place. The Lafayette House, and saw your name on the register. Let me see; what did he say it was?" "Was it Roy Sheldon?" "Yes, it was. Sounds a good deal like Rowe Shelly, don't it? He found your name there, and also the names of--" Here Willis hesitated again, for he was not quite sure of his ground. You must remember that he did not know as much about the prisoner as Babcock did, for Roy had not had the same chance to talk to him. So he stopped as often as he needed posting, and, strange to say, Roy never suspected that there was anything wrong. He afterward had occasion to take himself to task for his stupidity. "My two friends, Joe Wayring and Arthur Hastings?" again prompted Roy. "Did Babcock see them, and what did they have to say about my disappearance? I hope they haven't thought of writing home about it. I wouldn't have them do that for anything." This was something that Roy ought to have kept to himself; but he said it, and Willis was quick to make a note of it. "I don't know about that," he replied. "Babcock didn't see 'em to speak to 'em, and they didn't come off with him." "Now--why didn't they?" exclaimed the disappointed Roy, who had secretly cherished the hope that the fellow who so suddenly disappeared through the door was one of his chums. It would have been just like Art Hastings to play a trick of that kind on him. "I'll tell you why he didn't speak to--what's their names?" answered Willis. "He spoke to the clerk instead, because he did not want to raise a row, and he told him all about you." "The clerk did?" said Roy. "Why, he doesn't know anything about me. He never saw me until I went into his hotel in company with my friends." "That's what he told Bab; but he knew you were from--what is the name of that place again?" "Mount Airy?" "That's it. He knew you came from there, and more than that, he saw the genuine Rowe Shelly." "There, now," cried Roy. "That's evidence worth having. Did he catch him?" "No; but he is close on his trail. He brought this news over to me just now, Babcock did, and then went back to follow him up." "I hope he'll not catch him," said Roy. "I'm sure I can't understand why a boy as well fixed and as kindly treated as young Shelly seems to be should want to run away from home, but I suppose he has good reasons for it." "Not the first; not the smallest shadow of a reason," protested Willis. "Then he's crazy; that's flat." "Now you have hit it. That's what's the matter with him, and you heard Mrs. Moffatt say she had suspected it for a long time. You look surprisingly like Rowe, or else all those folks who met us on the jetty wouldn't have taken you for him. You've got the same hair, eyes, and mustache, and your clothes are exactly like his; but when I had a chance to exchange a word with you, I knew that Bab had made a big mistake." "Bab says you are the one who made the mistake, and that if I blame anybody for what has happened to me to-night, I must blame you." "Well, you wouldn't blame anybody if you could see Rowe Shelly," said Willis, deprecatingly. "Of course any amends that--" "Oh, I don't ask any amends," interposed Roy. "I've had an agreeable adventure, and I shall not make any trouble on account of it. All I ask is that you will send me to the city at once, so that I may relieve the anxiety of my friends. Now, what do you want me to do? Are you going to send me off in the yacht?" "I'd like to, but I can't," answered Willis. "The captain's asleep, and steam has gone down, so that it would take an hour to get ready for the start. I'll have to send you ashore in a boat, if you don't mind going that way." "Any way to get there," said Roy, picking up his cap. "I'm ready if you are." Willis left the room at once, and Roy followed him downstairs and out of the house. Did the man move with cautious footsteps as if he were afraid of disturbing somebody? Roy was sure he did, and thought it looked suspicious. CHAPTER VII. SOME STARTLING NEWS. "I don't much like the idea of sneaking out as if I were a thief," said Roy, involuntarily following the guide's motions and speaking in a low and guarded tone. "What's the object of so much secrecy? I know I have no right here, but since I was brought against my will, I have a perfect right to go out open and above board." "Easy, easy," whispered Willis, raising his hand with a warning gesture. "We don't want to disturb Mrs. Moffatt for nothing. The timid old soul lives in constant fear of a visit from New London burglars, and if we should wake her up she would be scared to death." Roy did not think to ask himself whether or not this was a good reason for Willis's stealthy movements, for his mind was too busy with other matters. He wanted to see the boat that was to take him across to the city, and fervently hoped it might prove to be a large and seaworthy one; for when he got out of the house he saw that the sky was overcast, that the wind was rising, and that the surface of the bay looked dark and threatening. "Isn't it going to be an ugly night?" said he, as he accompanied his guide down one of the broad carriageways that had been laid out along the beach. "What a lovely road for a wheel," he went on, without giving Willis a chance to reply. "It is as hard as rock and level as a floor." "Yes; here's where Rowe learned to ride," said Willis. "We have twenty miles of just such roads on the island." "Then that was what you meant when you said Rowe's clothes were just like mine; he is a wheelman," said Roy. "He has a nice place for his regular runs, and I should much like to see it by daylight; but I should think he would get lonely and long to take a spin on the mainland now and then. I tell you it's going to blow," he added, as a strong gust of wind shook the branches of the trees that shaded the road on both sides. "Are you going to the city with me?" "I can't leave the island until I put the hands to work in the morning," replied Willis. "But I will give you a good crew and a stanch boat. You'll go over all right. You are not afraid of a capful of wind, I hope?" "No, but I am afraid of a gale. I am used to smooth water, and don't at all relish the idea of being out in a storm." "Oh, it isn't going to storm. But if you get frightened after you are out a little way, tell the men to bring you back or to put you aboard some coaster, bound in. Here we are." As Willis said this he turned off the road and led the way down the bank and to the beach, where Roy found a boat and two men who were evidently waiting for him. "Here he is," said Willis, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder. "He doesn't much like the idea of going out in this breeze--" "The breeze don't blow to hurt anything," growled one of the men, pulling his sou'wester lower over his forehead and turning the collar of his pea-jacket up around his ears. "That's what I told him; but of course his wishes must be respected, and I want you to mind this: If it gets too heavy for you, you will either bring him back, or put him aboard some larger craft, bound in. If you will step this way a minute, Tony, I will give you an order for some goods I want brought from the city." The superintendent drew off on one side out of earshot, and one of the muffled figures followed him. "Me and Bob hain't yet made up our minds whether we'll have a hand in this business or not," said he, in a hoarse whisper. "Looks most too risky, don't it?" "There isn't a particle of risk about it," replied Willis. "Do you think I would put the colonel's nephew in danger for the sake of a paltry five hundred dollars? I tell you, there's nothing to fear. The colonel told me to attend to this business for him, and when he finds I've not done it, what shall I say to him? Do you want me to tell him that you wouldn't obey orders because you were afraid?" "Well, I am afraid, and that's flat," said Tony, doggedly. "I have heared of Cap'n Jack, and I'm scared to trust myself on board his ship." "You needn't be, for the colonel will protect you. Give him this the minute you get aboard, and it will see you through," said Willis, slipping an envelope into the pocket of Tony's pea-jacket. "Now, hurry up, for the captain is in a great taking to go to sea, and he's liable to run out at any moment. He's been waiting a long time--" "He's been waiting long enough to get good and mad, and I wouldn't be one of the crew he takes to sea with him this trip for all the money there is in the broad world," said Tony, with a shudder. "He'll haze 'em till they'll be glad to jump overboard." "You and I have nothing whatever to do with the way Captain Jack Rowan sees fit to treat his crew," said Willis impatiently. "All you and Bob have to do is to set this boy on board the White Squall, so that he can get that money. But mind you: You are not to tell him where you are going. He's as much afraid of the White Squall as you seem to be, and wouldn't put a foot over her rail if he knew it. He thinks he going into the city, and that you are to take him straight to a hack-stand. Say yes or no, and be quick about it. The wind is rising every moment, and if you don't start pretty soon you'll not be able to get away from the beach." "All right, Mr. Willis. We'll tend to the business for you." Tony spoke these words in a tone loud enough to reach the ears of Roy Sheldon, who remained near the boat in company with the man Bob. The former supposed the words had something to do with the "order" of which Willis had spoken, but Bob knew they were intended to convey to him the information that the job on hand was to be carried out just as it had been planned. "Jump aboard, lad," said he, motioning Roy to get into the boat. "Holler good-by to the old man, and that will do just as well as shaking hands with him." But Roy had no opportunity to "holler" his farewell, even if he had thought of it; for by the time the boat was fairly afloat, the crew in their places, and the oars shipped, the thick darkness of the on-coming storm closed down over them, and the beach was shut out from view. "I reckon that's the last of this scrape for one while," soliloquized Willis, as he pulled his hat down over his ears and retraced his steps to the house. "If there ever were two born fools in the world, they are me and Babcock. How we managed to make such a blunder, I can't for the life of me imagine. Now Rowe Shelly can cut his lucky and go and find his father and mother, for all me. I'll never try to catch him, for my cue now is to make folks believe I've had him here, and that he gave me the slip and cleared out. Is that you, Benny? You don't know how you startled me." Just then some one stepped out into the road and confronted the superintendent. It was his son; and all I know about him is that he was called "a chip of the old block," so he must have been a rascal. The first words the young man spoke proved that this was not the first interview they had had that night. "Well, how is it?" said he. "They've gone," replied his father shortly. "Then we've seen them for the last time; for when they get back we'll not be here. Captain Jack will be sure to carry them off with him." "Ain't you kinder sorry to treat Tony and Bob that way? They've been good, faithful fellows, and I hate to think of their being kicked and knocked about by those mates." "They're used to it," replied Benny indifferently. "Besides, what else could you do? You couldn't keep the boy, for he was not Rowe Shelly; and if you had let him go, he would have had the law on you for abduction. You couldn't have hired Bob and Tony to take him aboard the White Squall and leave him there, because they wouldn't have done it, and they would have blabbed about it into the bargain. By doing as I said, you've got rid of the whole of them at once, and they'll never come back to trouble you." The superintendent groaned. "I know what you're afraid of," continued Benny. "You're scared that the ship will go to the bottom with all hands. Well, then, what made you be such a dunce as to capture the wrong boy? You got into the scrape and you had to get out, didn't you? Now I'm going to bed." "There's going to be the biggest kind of a commotion on this island, and before long, too," said Willis dolefully. "I have warning of it in every breath of wind that comes off the bay." I do not suppose that Willis closed his eyes in slumber that night. It would have been a wonder if he had slept, with so guilty a conscience for company. He arose at an early hour, saw the yacht when she put off through the white-caps shortly after daylight to bring the morning's mail from the city, and waited with what patience he could for her return. She did not bring any of Roy Sheldon's friends with her, but she landed a larger supply of mail than usual, and in it the superintendent found a letter addressed to himself in Rowe Shelly's well-known handwriting. Its contents were enough to drive one frantic, Willis told himself. He had hoped that the runaway would be satisfied now that he had got off the island, and that he would quietly disappear and never "turn up" again; but here he was threatening the superintendent with the terrors of the law if he did not at once release the boy who had been mistaken for himself. "Somebody put him up to that," groaned Willis, "for Rowe never would have thought of such a thing himself. I wish I _could_ send that boy back where he belongs, and if I had ever dreamed of this, I would have done it. I made a mistake in taking Benny's advice and sending Roy Sheldon away to be "shanghaied," for instead of getting out of trouble, I have only pulled myself deeper into it. What is it, Jobson?" he added, addressing himself to one of the hired men who just then appeared at the door. "I came in to see if you could tell me anything about Tony and Bob Bradley," was the reply; and the words added big weight to the superintendent's heavy load of anxiety. "They are not on the island, and a boat that looks wonderfully like theirs is being driven ashore from the Sound. I didn't know but you might have sent them to the city for something." "In all that storm?" exclaimed Willis. "Say, Jobson," he continued, changing the subject, for it was one he did not like to dwell upon, "was the storm so very hard? I mean, was it severe enough to keep vessels from going and coming?" "Oh, no. I see the White Squall has left her anchorage. She must have gone out in the height of it, for she was there when I went to bed." "If those two men went away last night they did it without any orders from me," said Willis. "It's nothing to worry over. No doubt they will come around presently. So the White Squall has gone at last!" he added, as Jobson left to continue his search for Bob and Tony. "She has been anchored out there in the bay for more than two weeks, waiting for a chance to drug and steal a crew, and if she has sailed, that interloper must have sailed with her. In that case it will be a long time before he shows up again, for he'll not touch land this side of Cape Town. This is too damaging a thing to lay around loose, so I will chuck it in there," he added, tossing Rowe's letter into the grate. "Those people from the city will be along in the course of an hour or so, and I know what I am going to say to them. Now, why doesn't Mrs. Moffatt come in and tell me that Rowe has run away again?" Willis picked up one of the papers which the yacht had brought from the city, and the minute it was opened his eye fell upon this startling paragraph: MUTINY IN THE HARBOR. An Infamous Vessel and a Rebellious Crew.--A Sailor Prefers Death to a Voyage in the White Squall. "Pilot-boat No. 29, Caleb Rogers master, which was driven into the harbor by the gale, reports a suicide committed under peculiarly distressing circumstance. When off the light-ship bound in, Captain Rogers passed the White Squall going out. As the readers of _The Tribune_ have often been told, this interesting ship had lain at anchor in the outer bay for nearly three weeks, waiting for a crew; but no man who sails out of this port, so long as he kept a level head on his shoulders, could be induced to affix his name to her shipping articles. Now and then a few foreigners, under promise of big pay, plenty to eat and kind treatment, have been coaxed aboard of her, but they always deserted when they found out where they were and who the captain was. With the aid of shipping agents, or in some other underhanded way, the captain at last succeeded in mustering crew enough to handle his vessel, and this morning she went out in the teeth of the storm that forced Captain Rogers to seek shelter. When off the light-ship a man was seen to spring upon her rail and deliberately throw himself into the water. At the same time a white fishing-boat was cut loose from her starboard quarter, and the wind blew it out of sight. This, Captain Rogers thinks, made it evident that the crew had laid their plans to desert in a body, and that the plot was discovered and thwarted by the officers. Captain Rogers at once rounded to, lowered a boat, and made diligent search for the poor fellow who preferred to die rather than trust himself to the tender mercies of Captain Jack Rowan and his brutal mates, but he must have sunk immediately, for he was not seen after striking the water. At certain stages of the tide, heavy vessels like the White Squall are obliged to pass quite close to the ledge that bounds the northern side of the channel, and in ordinary weather a fair swimmer might succeed in reaching the light-ship; but under the circumstances Captain Rogers thinks there was no chance for this unfortunate man's life. The White Squall kept on her way without making the least effort to pick him up. Now what is the use of having any law, we should like to know, if it is not intended to reach just such ruffians as this Captain Jack and his officers? If that sailor made way with himself in his desperate efforts to escape their brutality, they ought to be punished with the utmost severity." Willis read this paragraph with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, and long before he finished the paper was shaking so violently in his hands that the noise it made could have been heard across the room. He understood some portions of the paragraph as well as though he had stood upon the White Squall's deck and witnessed the thrilling scenes that must have taken place there before that unhappy sailor gave himself up to the mercy of the waves. But was it a _sailor_ who jumped overboard? Might it not have been some one else? How did he know but it was--The exclamations that fell from the superintendent's lips when this thought came into his mind can not be expressed in words, for I do not know how to spell them. "Benny's plan worked too well," said Willis, throwing down the paper and getting upon his feet. "Why didn't he stay here and see me through, instead of going off in the yacht the first thing in the morning? They were all shanghaied, as we meant they should be; but was there any one in the white fishing-boat that was cast adrift from the ship and which Jobson says is now coming toward the island? And who was the fellow who jumped overboard? That is a question that will haunt me till I go ashore and learn the truth. I do not think Tony or Bob would do a thing like that, for they are used to hard treatment at the hands of shipmasters; and if it was Roy--Gracious Peter! I'm in a worse scrape than I thought." Willis did not have time to follow out this train of thought, for just then Mrs. Moffat came into the room. The man knew well enough what she was going to say, for the look of anxiety her face wore could be easily interpreted. "Good morning, Mr. Willis," said she, with a sorry attempt to appear as cheerful as usual. "Have you seen Rowe since we left him in his room last night?" "I have not," replied the superintendent, resuming his seat and once more unfolding the paper. "What makes you ask?" "Why, I went up just now to tell him breakfast would soon be ready, and he wasn't there," answered the housekeeper. "More than that, his bed was not slept in." "That doesn't signify. He took to the lounge probably, and went out before any of us were up for his usual morning's spin on his wheel." "But he took his wheel when he went to the city, and you did not bring it back," Mrs. Moffatt reminded him. "That's so. I had forgotten about it. I'll send for it as soon as he is ready to tell me where he left it. Then he took his pony." "The pony hasn't been out this morning. The hostler told me so. Mr. Willis," said the housekeeper, becoming earnest, "I'm afraid he's gone." "Again?" exclaimed Willis, as if the thought had just been suggested to him. "Why, we only brought him back last night." "I can't help that. I don't believe he is on the island." The man knew he must make a stir about it, for any lukewarmness or show of indifference on his part would be reported when the colonel returned, and Willis was not yet ready to give up his lucrative position. He wanted to make a little more money out of it first. So he hurried from the house, making a great show of nervousness and apprehension; and every man he met he sent off to make inquiries about Rowe Shelly. "If he has run away again I shall surely think he is out of his head," he took occasion to remark, in Mrs. Moffatt's hearing. "He couldn't go back to the city without crossing the bay, and no boy, or man either, would think of trying that in such a gale as we had last night and this morning, unless he was clean gone crazy. Have you brought any news, Jobson?" "The little I've got is bad enough," replied the hired man. "The boat I was telling you about a while ago has come ashore down there in the cove--" "And there's nobody in it," exclaimed the superintendent. "Mrs. Moffatt, I fear the worst. Rowe tried to reach the city in that boat, and the storm capsized him. I am afraid we shall never see him again." "If Rowe went off in that boat Bob and Tony must have gone with him," said Jobson, "for they ain't either one of them to be found on the island, and their folks don't know anything about them." "Do you think it possible that Rowe could have bribed them to take him across to the mainland?" said Willis anxiously. "If he did, then they have all gone to their death." "How could he have bribed anybody when he had no money?" cried Mrs. Moffatt. "Madam," replied the superintendent impressively, "he had money, and plenty of it, too." "When and how did he get it?" "You tell. All I know is, that every dollar of the funds the colonel left in my hands to pay expenses during his absence has disappeared." "I don't care if it is," snapped the housekeeper. "Rowe Shelly never took it. He isn't capable of such a thing." To an inexperienced rascal it would have seemed as though the situation was about as bad as it could be, and even Willis trembled when he tried to look far enough into the future to see what the outcome was likely to be. But, as it happened, he was saved from the consequences of his folly and wickedness (for the present, at least), by one of those unexpected freaks of fortune that sometimes happen in this world. He did not want to talk about the stolen money, especially to a person as sharp of tongue and as firmly convinced of Rowe's innocence as Mrs. Moffatt was, so he sent word to the captain of the yacht to get ready for an immediate return to the city, and hastened to his room. His first care was to make some important changes in his wearing apparel, and his second to hide the morning papers and take possession of a well-filled pocket-book he found in his bureau. "I don't know as there is any sense in putting those papers out of Mrs. Moffatt's sight," said he to himself, "but somehow I don't want her to see the account of that suicide until I am away from here and out of reach of her tongue. I thought, by the way she looked at me, that she rather suspected me of stealing that money; and didn't Rowe say in his letter that if there was any money gone, he'd sooner think I took it than accuse anybody else? Well, here it is, and more besides, and into my pocket it goes. It sort of runs in my head that I am going to see and hear something before I get back; and if it should be anything unpleasant, I shall be prepared to take the train." Having arranged things so that he could run or stay, as circumstances seemed to require, Willis hurried to the jetty and ordered the captain of the yacht to shove off. Of course the strange events that had taken place on board the White Squall were in the mouths of all the yacht's crew, for they had heard all about them during their first trip to the city, and besides they had read the _Tribune_. Wherever Willis went, into the pilot-house, the engine-room, or on the forecastle, he was sure to hear them discussed; and after repeatedly declaring that he didn't know anything about them, and that he was going to New London to see if he could learn any additional particulars, Willis finally retreated to the cabin and tried to interest himself in a paper. What it was that induced him to jump ashore the minute the yacht landed, and draw a bee-line for the Lafayette House, the superintendent could not have told. But he went, as if impelled by some impulse he could not resist, and the first person he saw when he entered the reading-room was the very one he did not want to see. It was Roy Sheldon. He wore a bandage over one eye, the other was slightly discolored, and Willis noticed that when he moved his right arm he did it with some difficulty. It had evidently been injured in some way. He had on different clothes, a dress suit, in fact, consisting of blue broadcloth knickerbockers and shirt, black silk stockings, low shoes, and new white helmet. If Willis had never seen him before, he would have rushed up and called him Rowe Shelly; but he knew it wasn't Rowe. He took just one glance at him, then wheeled about to retire without attracting his notice, when Roy, who was impatiently waiting for Joe and Arthur, looked up and saw him. In an instant he was on his feet and coming toward the man, who could not retreat. Roy had but to say a word to bring in the policeman who was standing in front of the hotel. But, to the superintendent's great surprise, he did not say it. On the contrary he held out his hand, and even tried to smile. What in the world did it mean? Willis asked himself. "Good-morning," said Roy, in cheery tones. "I made it, as you see, but I had a tight squeak for it. Say! I am sorry for Tony and his friend. The waves and wind got so heavy they couldn't make headway against them; they dared not round to and go back to the island for fear of a capsize, so they hailed a ship that was getting under way. We supposed that she was going to pull farther into the harbor for shelter; in fact, one of her officers told us so. But, by gracious! the minute we got aboard what did that scoundrel of a captain do but--Sit down, and I will tell you all about it. It's a little ahead of anything I ever heard of. Seen this morning's _Tribune_?" "No; that is to say, yes. I've seen the _Tribune_, but no other paper," replied Willis, who was so astounded that he hardly knew what he said. "Then, of course, you know about the poor sailor-man who preferred death to a voyage in the White Squall," continued Roy. "Well, there wasn't any suicide. The fellow who deliberately threw himself into the water was I; and I tell you--Why don't you sit down? I'm as lame as though I had been pounded with a club, although I know I was struck only twice, once in each eye, and almost had my arm jerked out of place. I can't stand long at a time." Willis mechanically seated himself and listened like one in a dream, while Roy related the following story of his adventure. CHAPTER VIII. ON BOARD THE WHITE SQUALL. "Just one word before you begin your story," said Willis, who was not entirely satisfied with Roy's friendly speech and manner, believing, as he did, that the boy might have some sinister object in view. He was afraid to trust anybody, knowing full well that he could not be trusted himself. "As many words as you please," replied Roy, resuming his seat and placing his injured arm in a comfortable position on the table at his side. "I told the clerk when I first came back that I wouldn't be interviewed; but I know he has sent three reporters after me. All they learned didn't do them much good. You see I don't want my name to appear in the papers, for my folks would be sure to see it; then good-by to all my fine plans for the summer. Of course you'll not say a word." "Not I," replied Willis. "I don't want everybody to know what fools Babcock and I made of ourselves. By the way, have you seen Bab this morning?" Roy said he hadn't. "That's all right," said Willis to himself; and he was so immensely relieved that he could scarcely keep still in his seat. "Then of course you don't know that I didn't tell you the truth when I said Bab had warned me that you were not Rowe Shelly. That's _all_ right. Now, how much does this boy know or suspect, I wonder?" Then aloud he added: "I am sorry you haven't seen Bab, for he would show you a photograph of Rowe Shelly he has in his possession; and after you had taken one look at it, you would see how we came to mistake you for our runaway. I hope you don't bear me any ill-will for--" "Of course I don't," interrupted Roy. "I don't feel hard toward you or Babcock either. I came within an ace of losing my life (I don't see how I managed to save it, having never swum a stroke in so rough water before), but here I am, safe if not sound, and all's well that ends well." "You and Rowe are as much alike as two peas," began Willis. "I can easily believe that, for when I walked up to the desk the clerk began asking me questions I couldn't understand; but I can see the drift of some of them now, for those three reporters have been at me since then, and I know Rowe Shelly was here in this hotel last night, and that he went somewhere on a steamer. When I came in all bunged up, the clerk wanted to know if the boat had burst her boiler." "Which way did Rowe go?" asked Willis, who was deeply interested. "I don't know, and you wouldn't expect me to tell you if I did, would you? I have seen how nicely he is fixed over there on the island, and I am sure that if there wasn't some good reason for it, he would never leave a home like that and go out among strangers." "He might if he was crazy," suggested Willis. "And where's the boy who would not go crazy after years of solitary confinement, no matter if his prison was furnished like a palace?" exclaimed Roy. "I'll bet you that you could not keep me shut up in any such place as that. I would find some way to open communication with a lawyer, who would call upon that uncle of mine to show cause for detaining me against my will." "I believe you would," thought Willis, who, as he gazed into the boy's flashing eyes, told himself that money would not tempt him to take charge of such a prisoner as Roy would be likely to prove. He knew too much, was altogether too wide-awake, and the desperate measures he had adopted to escape from the White Squall, after he had been fairly kidnapped, showed that he was by no means lacking in courage. Willis wondered if any of those rebellious ideas had been put into Rowe Shelly's head since he ran away. If so, the next time his guardian saw him he would probably have an attorney at his back, and then there would be fun on the island. Willis really wanted information on this point, and while he was wondering how he could get it without asking questions that might excite Roy's suspicions, the matter was settled in a most unexpected way. All on a sudden Roy staggered to his feet with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure on his lips, and darted forward to fall into the arms of two new-comers, namely Arthur Hastings and Joe Wayring. "Where have you been?" said Roy, as soon as he could speak. "I have waited and watched for the last seven hours, and you don't know how lonely I have been without you." "Haw!" laughed Joe. "We haven't been gone from the hotel more than an hour, and you were not here when we went away." "We've been up on Bank Street to call upon Mr. Wilcox," replied Arthur, with a sidelong glance at Willis. "Where have _you_ been to get mussed up in this way? You are a nice looking specimen, I must say. Who's been at you?" "I can't let everything out at once, so you must ask your questions one at a time," said Roy, motioning to his chums to seat themselves. "In the first place, this is Mr. Willis, Colonel Shelly's superintendent. My two friends, Joe Wayring and Arthur Hastings, Mr. Willis." To Roy's great surprise his companions did not seem particularly pleased to make the acquaintance of Mr. Willis. They nodded, but did not offer to shake hands with him. "Babcock has made his report and told everything just as it happened," said Arthur. "We have seen him, and he says he never would have made the mistake he did if Willis had not insisted that you were the boy they were looking for." "Then Babcock told you what wasn't so," exclaimed Willis. "That's what he told us, anyhow," said Joe. "He's outside now waiting for us, and you can speak to him about it, if you want to." "Waiting for you?" repeated Roy. "Where are you going?" "We intended to hire a tug and go over to the island after you," answered Arthur. "But you see there's no need of it, don't you? Mr. Willis attended to that as soon as he became satisfied that I wasn't Rowe Shelly." "Ah! That puts a different look on the matter," said Joe. "But where did you get those black eyes if you didn't get them while escaping from the island?" "I got them on the White Squall," replied Roy, "and that brings me to the story I was getting ready to tell Mr. Willis when you came in. But before I begin, go out and ask that detective to come here. I should like to see the photograph he's got in his pocket. I am told it looks just like me." "And so it does, at first glance," said Arthur, rising from his seat. "But the more one gazes upon it, the less it looks like you. You shall see for yourself." "Let me go after Babcock, please," Willis interposed, "and you stay here and talk to your friends. I will bring him right in." There was nothing strange in this proposition, so Arthur sat down again, while Willis went out to make things straight with the detective. He didn't want him to come into Roy's presence until he had opportunity to post him. "So that's the scamp who got you into so much trouble, is it?" said Arthur, in tones of disgust. "We meant to have him arrested if he didn't talk pretty smoothly to us, and yet we find you and him here as thick as a couple of thieves." "Now, what's the sense in going on like that?" demanded Roy. "If I am satisfied with his story, I'm sure you ought to be. Willis is all right. The minute he learned that I wasn't Rowe Shelly, he woke me up in the middle of the night, put me into a boat with two good men to row it, and sent me over to the city. He was as anxious to be rid of me as I was to find you. Now see if you can't treat him decently when he comes back." How Willis would have hugged himself if he could have heard Roy Sheldon say this! There was not the faintest suspicion in the boy's mind that the superintendent had been guilty of treachery, and that he had sent him on board the White Squall intending that he should be "shanghaied" and carried so far away from America that he would not get back for six months or a year. If Roy had mistrusted that there was anything wrong, his fears on that score would have vanished when he saw Bob and Tony driven forward to do duty before the mast, and their boat given up to the mercy of the waves. He thought they had unwittingly brought themselves and him into serious trouble. That was all there was of it. I never heard just how Willis went to work to put himself on a friendly footing with the detective, but my impression is that he told him the whole truth, and offered Babcock a bonus if he would back up anything he might say in the hearing of Roy and his friends. At all events that was what the detective did. When he entered the reading-room he took a photograph from his pocket, and after spending a minute or two in comparing it with the face of the boy before him, he stepped up and handed it to Roy. "So that's the way I look when I haven't a black eye and a lame arm, is it?" said the latter, as his gaze rested on the picture. "I know something now I never knew before." "What is it?" asked Joe. "That I am the handsomest and most stylish looking chap in our party," replied Roy. "We haven't time for any more nonsense of that sort," said Arthur. "Mr. Babcock, our missing friend has turned up, as you see, and so we shall not be obliged to go to the island. How much do we owe you?" "Not a red cent," said the detective, who was glad indeed that his mistake and Willis's seemed in a fair way to straighten itself out, and that he wasn't going to get into difficulty through the blunder he had made the night before. "I am heartily sorry that I caused you and your friend so much trouble and anxiety." "But he did his best to undo it," chimed in Willis. "He went over to the island and told me to set the boy ashore as soon as I could, and give him a guide to show him to his hotel, and that was the way I came to send him off in the boat that was caught in the storm. I might have waited until morning, but Roy wouldn't hear of it." "Of course not," assented Roy. "I wanted to see my friends and relieve their suspense." "I guess we have asked questions enough for the present," said Arthur, who was impatient to know how Roy came to have those black eyes, "and now we'd like to have you tell us why you didn't come ashore in better shape, when you had a boat and two good men to manage it for you." Roy's story was none the less interesting because it had been so long delayed. I have told you how he left the island without opportunity to shout his adieu to the superintendent, even if he had thought of it; but he didn't. The waves made a fearful noise as they broke upon the beach, and came with such force that Bob and Tony were obliged to wade in until the water reached to their waists before they could launch the boat and ship the oars. By the time this had been done, darkness closed down upon them and shut the island from view. When they got out from under the cliffs where the wind had a fair sweep, the way the boat began to pitch and toss about was alarming, and Roy lived in momentary expectation of seeing her come about and start back for the island. But he was a canoeist instead of a deep-water sailor, and perhaps that was the reason he was frightened. For he was frightened, as he was afterwards free to confess; more so than he would have been if he could have had a hand in the management of the boat. But there were only two oars, and no rudder to steer by, and all Roy could do was to sit still in the stern-sheets and wish the trip was at an end. "What are you holding so far to the right for?" Roy demanded at length, shouting at the top of his voice in order to make himself heard. "The city is off there, more to the left." "There's a hack-stand where we are headin' for," came a hoarse voice, in reply, "and there you can get a carriage to take you straight to your hotel. More'n that, we dassent run afore the waves with only two oars, for fear that one of 'em will come in over the starn an' sink us. We have to run kinder criss-cross of 'em." "But you don't take them quartering," protested Roy. "You are holding so that they strike almost broadside. I'd rather you'd round to and go back. That's what Mr. Willis told you to do in case you found the wind and sea too heavy for you." "I'd like mighty well to do it," Tony made answer, "but I dassent. Now that we've got this fur, we've got to go on. If we should turn around the sea would come pourin' in over the side an' take all hands to the bottom afore you could say 'hard-a-starboard' with your mouth open. Do you see that bright light dead ahead? Well, there's where the pier is, if we can keep afloat till we get there." Roy may have been mistaken, but he was positive he heard the man add, in a lower tone, as if the words were intended only for his companion's ears: "Cap'n Jack must be a-lookin' for a crew to-night, else he wouldn't have that light out so open and suspicious like. Well, it's the best kind of a night for that sort of work, but I'm sorry for the poor chaps he gets." The next time Tony faced about on his seat to make sure of the course he was pursuing, the bright light had disappeared; and when the wind lulled for a moment, the faint clanking of a capstan came to his ears. The sound seemed to nerve him and Bob to greater exertion. "Pull, ye rascal," shouted Tony, so that Roy could hear it. "It's comin' harder every blessed minute, an' the wind an' tide together is takin' us out to sea as fast as they can. Pull, why don't ye? Do you see a ship or a coaster anywheres, I don't know? If you do, sing out an' ask 'em can we come aboard of her till the wind dies down a bit." "Look out!" yelled Roy, as something black and huge loomed out of the darkness directly in their course. "We're running into a block of houses." But it was a heavy ship that barred their way, as Roy found when they got a little closer to her. She was weighing anchor, and the clanking of the capstan came from her forecastle. "On deck there!" shouted Tony. "Goin' to change your berth, or what you goin' to do?" Some answer came back, but, although the words were plain enough, Roy could not understand it. It was evident, however, that Tony could, for he called out: "Goin' to pull farther in for shelter, are you? All right. Will you let some tired sailor-men aboard of you to ride in? We'll be glad to lend a hand." This time there was no mistaking the answer. "You're as welcome as the flowers in May," said a deep voice. "Drop around under our lee and come up." "Be in a hurry, Bob," cried Tony, as he dropped back upon his seat and gave way on his oar. "The staysail is fillin', an' if she falls off much she'll run us under." That was a moment of fearful suspense to the inexperienced Roy, who, dark as it was, could see that the immense ship was gradually swinging around toward the boat, slowly, to be sure, but with a power that seemed irresistible. But his crew were equal to the occasion. They easily got out of her reach, dropped around under her stern, and when Tony gave the word, Bob seized the painter and tossed it up to some one on deck, who promptly made it fast. "Up you come with a jump," said a commanding voice, as Bob went up the painter hand over hand, while Tony lingered to stow the oars so that the waves would not wash them out of the boat. "Toddle for'ard and lend a hand with the head-sails, if you know enough to find the ropes in the dark. Do you?" added the voice, as Bob tumbled over the side and stood upon the deck facing the speaker, who held up a lighted lantern so that he could have a good view of the sailor's features. His own features were revealed as well, and Bob stared hard at them. "Well, if you are Cap'n Jack Rowan," was his mental reflection, "you are as fine a specimen of a sea-tiger as I ever looked at; an' I wish Tony an' Willis an' that young monkey who brought me into your den was all sunk a hunderd fathoms deep, so I do." "Here's another and another," exclaimed the man with the lantern, as Roy and Tony came over the rail. "Is that all of you? Go for'ard and lend a hand." "Hold hard, sir," said Tony. "I've got a letter for you." And after considerable fumbling in the pocket of his pea-jacket with his hand, Tony drew it out and gave it to the captain, who said "All right," and hurried to his cabin to read it; for the light of the lantern was so dim that he could not even decipher the writing on the envelope. "A letter for him!" thought Roy. "It's very strange. That looks as though Tony expected to find this ship here, and that he was holding straight for her when he declared he was heading for a hack-stand. But what's the odds? I'd rather have a good ship under me than be out in this wind in a cranky little boat." Having never been aboard a seagoing vessel before, Roy Sheldon would have taken the deepest interest in all that was going on around him if there had only been light enough for him to see plainly; but he made some observations in spite of the darkness. He found that the deck under his feet seemed to be as solid as the ground; that the waves which had tossed Tony's boat like a chip in a mill-pond had but little effect upon the ship's huge bulk; and he gave it as his private opinion that she was big enough and strong enough to ride out any storm that ever swept the ocean. But there was one thing Roy did not know, and he was two or three hundred miles from New London harbor when he found it out. Strong as she appeared to be, the ship was unseaworthy, her timbers were decayed, and the underwriters wouldn't look at her. The owner was taking his personal risk in sending her abroad with a valuable cargo, and that was one reason why she had found it so hard to ship a crew. "Lay for'ard an' lend a hand with the head-sails," said Tony, when the man with the lantern disappeared down the companion-way. "Come along, lad, and we'll make a sailor-man of you." Nothing loth, Roy stumbled forward in Tony's wake, laid hold of a rope when his guide did, and pulled with all his strength, although he had not the slightest idea what he and the rest were pulling for. As often as the flashes of lightning illumined the scene, he improved the opportunity to take a survey of his surroundings; but all he saw was that there was a heavy sail slowly rising over his head, and that there were a goodly number of men on deck, all of whom were working at something. He was so deeply occupied with his own thoughts, wondering how he would feel if he were going to sea on that ship as one of the crew, and be required to scrub decks, tug at wet ropes, go aloft in all sorts of weather, and submit to hard fare and hard treatment besides.--Roy's mind was so busy with these reflections that he did not hear the command, "'Vast heavin'. Slack away on that halliard," nor did he dream that the order was addressed to himself, until the rope, at which he was still pulling with all his might, was jerked from his hands with such force that Roy was sent headlong to the deck. He scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could, but before he reached a perpendicular some enraged sailor gave him a hearty kick. "I guess they don't want me around," thought Roy, "and no doubt I am in the way so I'll go aft. Is that the way they use a foremast hand, I wonder--kick him when he falls down through no fault of his own? I am glad I am not a sailor." When Roy had a chance to look about him, as he did as often as the lightning flashed over the deck, he saw that a good many things had been done during the few minutes that had elapsed since he boarded the vessel. Besides the sailors who were busy with the head-sails, a second party of men, under another officer, had been equally active on the quarter-deck; another huge sail had been given to the breeze, and a man sent to the wheel. The vessel was gathering rapid headway, and, what seemed strange to Roy, she was not rounding to in order to go up the harbor, because the lights which pointed out the position of the piers in the lower end of the city were still on the left hand, and one by one they danced away out of sight over the port quarter. The ship was holding straight for the entrance to the bay, through which she would soon pass to the open sea. "By gracious! We shall be in a pretty fix if we don't get off immediately," soliloquized Roy, holding fast to the rail and looking in vain for Tony and Bob. "What can those men be thinking of? If they delay much longer I shall cast off in that boat and do the best I can by myself." "Lay aloft and loose to'gallantsails," shouted a voice, almost in Roy's ear. "Up you go, ye young sea-monkey!" "I don't belong here," replied Roy, turning about and finding himself face to face with one of the mates, who emphasized his order by waving his arm toward the topsail yard. "But I'll do the best I can if you think you can trust me. How long before you are going to run into the harbor?" If the mate heard and understood the question he did not take the trouble to reply to it. He simply shouted, "Lay aloft and be quick about it!" and then backed up against the rail so that he could watch the movements of the men who had already responded to the command to loose topgallant-sails. "I know I'll not be of the least use up there," said Roy, as he scrambled up the ratlines, "but I'll have something to talk about when I get ashore." Roy worked his way upward until his progress was stopped by something that frightened him. It was the futtock-shrouds, the terror of every greenhorn. Above his head was a sort of platform, with an opening through it large enough to admit of the passage of an ordinary sized man, and over the edge of it ran a rope ladder to a second series of shrouds leading to a similar platform still higher up. That was the way Roy described the situation to himself, and it is the only way I can describe it, for an Expert Columbia is not supposed to know any thing about ships. "Great Scott!" panted Roy; "do the sailors, every time they go aloft, have to creep around the outer edge of that platform, and hang with their backs downward, like flies on a ceiling? or do they go through that opening close to the mast? I wonder if that isn't the 'lubber's hole' I have so often read of? I don't care what it is; I'll stay here. But why don't the ship come about and go toward the harbor, if she's going to? I wonder if that light off there, which blazes up so brightly every minute or two and then disappears, isn't on the light-ship. If it is, this ship's going to sea, and we'll go with her if we don't get off directly." While the boy was talking to himself in this way he did not permit anything that transpired within the range of his vision to escape his notice. He might never again have opportunity to see sail made aboard ship, and now was the time for him to learn something. He heard an almost constant scurrying of feet below, mingled with a chorus of unintelligible commands, some of which were addressed to the dozen or more men who were clinging to a swaying yard over his head, and finally an answering "Ay, ay, sir," came out of the darkness and the men began to "lay down from aloft." Before Roy knew what they meant to do, they were crowding past him on their way to the deck. The last to go by him was Tony. "What you doin' here, lad?" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you come up higher an' lend a hand with the topsail?" "The mate or some other officer told me to come, and here I am; although I assured him I wouldn't be of any use," replied Roy. "I was afraid to go any higher. Look here; isn't it about time we were going ashore? I don't believe this ship means to go up the harbor at all." Tony made some reply under his breath, but Roy did not understand it. "What's that flash I see every little while off the port bow?" he continued. "It comes from the light-ship which is anchored at the mouth of the harbor, doesn't it? We're going as close to her as we can lie in this wind, and when we pass her we'll be outside, won't we? You had better find out whether or not the captain wants to send any word off in response to the letter you gave him, and then we'll go ashore." Roy was not a little surprised by the way Tony acted while he was talking to him. He clung to the shrouds with one hand, holding his hat on with the other, all the time uttering the most incomprehensible ejaculations, and glaring wildly around as if he were trying to get his bearings. At last he seemed to recover his power of speech by a mighty effort, and something he said sent a thrill of horror all through Roy Sheldon. "She's a-goin', easy enough, an', lad, me an' you an' Bob is shanghaied," stammered Tony. Roy did not grasp the full meaning of the last word. It was the sailor's manner that impressed and frightened him. CHAPTER IX. A SWIM IN ROUGH WATER. "Yes, sir, we're shanghaied," repeated Tony, looking over his shoulder at the lights on shore, which appeared to be moving away from the ship, and going faster and faster as the minutes flew by. "That's what's the matter of me an' you an' Bob. We've been stole from our homes an' friends an' tooken to sea agin our will." "No!" gasped Roy, who was almost paralyzed by these ominous words. "It can't be possible." "That's what the matter of us, an' you'll find it so." "But I'll not go. I don't belong aboard this ship, and the captain has no business to take me to sea against my will." "Small odds it makes to the likes of him whether he's got any business to do it or not," answered Tony, who, far from showing the least sign of anger over the outrage of which he was the victim, seemed disposed to accept his fate with as much fortitude as he was able to command. "Where have you lived all your life, that you don't know that that's the way shipmasters sometimes do when they can't raise a crew as fast as they want to? They get men aboard their vessels an' run away with 'em. That's what they are doin' with us." "But I'll not do duty, I tell you," exclaimed Roy, fairly dazed by the gloomy prospect before him. "I can't, for I am not a sailor. Let's go down and tell the captain to luff and let us off." "'Twon't do no good," answered Tony, with a sigh of resignation. "He'll only swear at you an' say that the mates will very soon break you in an' larn you your duty. We're in for a long, hard voyage, an' might as well give up all thoughts of gettin' ashore first as last." "Never!" said Roy, wrathfully. "If there is such a thing--" "Lay down from aloft!" shouted a voice from the deck, following up the command with a volley of oaths and threats that were enough to make a landsman shudder. "Ay, ay, sir," replied Tony. "Why don't you say the same, lad? You've got to come to it, for it will be worse for you if you don't. There ain't the least use in kickin', for Cap'n Jack has got us hard an' fast." Roy, who could plainly hear the beating of his heart above the howling of the gale, which seemed to be increasing in fury every moment, followed Tony to the deck, and immediately made his way aft to demand an interview with the captain. He found him easily--at least he found the man who went below with the lantern--and thus addressed him: "Captain, I thought you were going into the harbor for shelter, but I find you are going to sea. Will you luff long enough to let me and my crew get into our boat and shove off?" To Roy's surprise and indignation the captain did not appear to be listening to him at all. He kept his gaze fastened upon something ahead of the ship, and now and then turned to give an order to the man at the wheel. If Roy had only known it, he was forcing himself upon the captain's notice at a most critical time. The latter was trying to take his vessel out of the bay without the aid of a pilot, and of course his attention was so fully occupied that he had neither the leisure nor the inclination to listen to any requests or complaints. "Starboard a spoke or two. Steady at that. Mr. Crawford," shouted the captain, addressing one of his mates, "if that man with the lead can't speak so that I can hear him, knock him overboard and put somebody else in his place. How close to the light-ship can I run in this tide?" "If you don't run in closer than you are now you'll be aground in a minute more," was the reply that was shouted aft. "Quarter less three on the port bow." Roy paid little attention to this conversation, though he thought of it afterward, for it was a most fortunate thing for him that the vessel was obliged to run within a stone's throw of the light-ship. He wanted the skipper to speak to him. "Captain," said he in a louder tone, at the same time drawing a step nearer and taking the unwarrantable liberty to pluck him by the coat-sleeve. "Captain, will you please--" "What do you want here?" thundered the angry skipper, kicking at the boy with his heavy boot. But the words, which came just a second or two before the kick, served as a warning of what might be expected, and when the captain's boot got where he had been, Roy wasn't there. He dodged out of the way very cleverly, and raised his voice in useless remonstrance. "Do you know who you are kicking at?" he exclaimed. "I am not one of your crew to be driven about in this fashion. I came aboard under a misapprehension, and want to go ashore. My boat is alongside." What the skipper would have said or done if it had not been for something that happened just then, I don't pretend to know. Beyond a doubt he would have made the free-spoken Roy sup sorrow with a big spoon, if Tony and Bob had not unwittingly created a diversion in his favor. When they saw Roy standing so near the captain they took heart, and came aft to say a word for themselves, but repented of it when the enraged skipper undertook to drive the boy forward with a kick. But then it was too late for them to escape punishment for their assurance in venturing into the captain's presence without being asked. One of the mates saw them when they went aft, and made it his business to follow them with a piece of rope in his hand. Roy saw him swing it in the air and knew what he meant to do with it; but before he had time to shout a warning to the men for whose backs it was intended, the rope fell twice in quick succession, and with such force that Tony and Bob staggered under the blows. "Lay for'ard, where you belong, and come on the quarter-deck when you've got business here," shouted the mate. He raised the rope to give emphasis to his order, but the two men hurried out of his reach. Then the mate looked at Roy. "Give him a dose, too, Mr. Crawford," said the captain. "He's no right to come here bothering me at this juncture. You might as well teach him his place one time as another." Roy opened his lips to protest against such an outrage, but seeing the mate advancing upon him, he turned and took to his heels. In half a minute more he was hauling at a rope in company with somebody whom he took to be Tony; but it proved to be a sailor who was posted in regard to the vessel and her contemplated movements. "What ship is this?" whispered Roy, trying hard to swallow a big lump that seemed to be rising in his throat. "The White Squall," was the answer. "Is she going to sea?" The sailor prepared to give a profane response to the question, which was so simple that a blind boy ought to have been able to answer it for himself, but when he came to look at Roy he hesitated, and choked back the words that arose to his lips. "Yes, she's bound out, and you haven't any call to go with her, have you?" said he. "It's a hard case, but I don't see what you can do about it." "Isn't there any law to punish a captain for taking men to sea against their will?" asked Roy. "Not on the high seas," was the reply. "The only law there is outside is the cap'n's will. How come you aboard here in the first place?" Roy explained the situation as briefly as he could, whereupon the sailor laughed incredulously. "That crew of your'n must be into the plot," said he. "What plot?" inquired Roy. "Why, isn't there somebody ashore who don't want you there, and who would be glad to have you carried so far away that you would never get back again?" "Of course there isn't," said Roy, amazed at the idea. "Then it's mighty strange," continued the sailor, reflectively. "The wind don't blow to hurt anything, and that crew of your'n could have taken you to the city if they had been so minded." "You're mistaken there. They dared not turn about for fear our boat would be capsized. It isn't likely that they would have come aboard this ship if they had known that they were going to be kidnapped, would they?" "Aha!" exclaimed the sailor. "So they have been shanghaied too, have they? Then I can't understand the matter at all. No, they wouldn't have come here if they had known that, for I have heard that the cap'n is one of the worst brutes that any poor chap ever sailed under." "Then why do you sail with him? Were you shanghaied, too?" "Oh no; I was shipped all straight enough, but, bless you, I never knew what sort of a craft I was getting onto till it was too late to back out. But I never expect to reach Canton alive." "Canton?" cried Roy. "Is that where this ship is bound?" "It's the port the old man intends to bring up in if he can keep afloat that long. Being as I'm here, I'm going to do an able seaman's duty as long as I am on top of water. You say you came off in a boat. Where is she now?" Roy replied that she was towing alongside. "Well, look here," said the sailor hastily. "Do you see that flash ahead? It comes from the light-ship. If you know when you are well off, you will jump into that boat of your'n and pull for that light the best you know how. It's your only chance, for I don't believe this old tub will ever see port again." "So I can," said Roy joyfully. "Will you go with me? and I can tip Tony and Bob the wink and have them go too?" "Not by no means," said the sailor, as if the idea of such a thing was enough to frighten him. "Take care of yourself, and let the rest do the same. Are you going to try it?" he added, when Roy let go his hold upon the rope and looked around to see what had become of the mate. "Then make a sure thing of it the first time trying. Don't allow yourself to be brought back, for if you do you'll wish you had never been born. You'd better sink right here in the harbor than trust yourself to this ship and her officers. It don't matter about me, for I am used to hard knocks." The sailor's earnest words frightened Roy, but did not deter him from carrying out the bold plan he had suddenly formed in his mind. Casting his eye around the deck to make sure that the mate with the rope's end was nowhere in sight, he moved swiftly along the weather rail, until he thought he saw a chance to dart over to the other side without being seen. He crossed the deck with a few quick steps and looked over into the water. There was the boat, still right side up, and her painter was within easy reach of his hand. More than that, as if to encourage him in his desperate resolve, the flash from the light-ship, now close aboard, burst through the gloom, and showed him everything as plainly as though it had been broad daylight. The dark waves with their white caps looked very threatening, but so did the prospect he had before him of making a long voyage under brutal officers and in an unseaworthy vessel. "It's now or never," thought Roy, shutting his teeth hard and calling all his courage to his aid. "In five minutes more that light-ship will be so far out of reach--" Just then something took him full in the eye, and Roy, who had bent over while working at the boat's painter, straightened up with a jerk, and flopped down upon his back. Scarcely realizing what had happened to him, the boy scrambled to his feet only to receive a blow in the other eye, and to hear the mate shout at him, in tones of suppressed fury: "Going to desert, were you? I expected it, and have had my gaze fastened on you all along. Take that and that, and see if it will do you until I can get a better chance at you." Did the enraged officer intend to kill him where he lay? Roy wondered, as he raised his arm to ward off the heavy blows from the rope's end that were aimed at his head. It is quite possible that the brute would have disabled him had not the captain, who had witnessed the whole proceeding, called out: "Cast the boat adrift, Mr. Crawford. That will put an end to all such nonsense." The officer turned to obey the order, and in an instant Roy was on his feet. At the same instant, too, the sailor's warning words came into his mind like an inspiration: "Don't allow yourself to be brought back, for if you do you will wish you had never been born. You'd better sink right here in the harbor than trust yourself to this ship and her officers," and something the mate said while he was striking at him with the rope's end satisfied Roy that there was more punishment of some sort coming as soon as the officer could find time to administer it. "Another such a beating as that would lay me up sure," thought Roy, drawing his hand across his face and looking around to see where he was. "I can't stand it and I won't." Roy sprang away from the rail, but quick as the action was, the movement the vigilant officer made to defeat it was almost as quick. His brawny hand shot out like a flash, and by the merest chance missed a hold upon Roy's arm. His strong fingers fastened into the boy's shirt-sleeve, and during the brief but furious struggle that followed either the stitches or cloth gave away. At any rate when the mate straightened up he was holding the sleeve of Roy's shirt in his grasp, and Roy himself, having cleared the deck in two or three jumps, was standing upon the lee rail. "Come back here, you villain," roared the mate, starting forward, "or I'll haze you till you'll be glad to go overboard in mid-ocean." But the boy preferred to go overboard in the harbor, where he stood a chance--a bare chance--of rescue. He did not see the pilot-boat that dashed by just then, but he saw the light-ship riding at her anchorage a short distance away, and without pausing to take another look at the angry waters, for fear that the sight of them would be too much for his courage, he sprang into the air. The mate reached the side just a minute too late. The deserter was well out of his way. "That's the end of him, sir," said he, turning to the captain. "Let the pilot-boat take care of him," said the latter gruffly. "I can't stop to bother with him." This was all that was said aboard the White Squall, and nothing whatever was done to aid the deserter; but the pilot-boat officers had more humanity. As soon as their vessel could be thrown up into the wind a boat was put into the water, and for half an hour or more the crew pulled about in various directions, looking for Roy, who was swimming for the light-ship with slow and easy strokes. He was by all odds the best swimmer in Mount Airy, and his skill and long wind stood him well in hand now. He was badly frightened at first when the waves broke over his head and bore him under, but he always came to the surface in time to catch the next one, which not only carried him rapidly toward his haven of refuge, but kept him afloat long enough to get his breath and fill his lungs for the next plunge. Roy afterward said that that long swim in rough water was more like a dream than a reality. When he found that he had no trouble in keeping on top of the water long enough to breathe fully and freely, but two ideas filled his mind. One was to reach the light-ship before his strength gave out; the second to lose no time, after he got ashore, in doing something for Bob and Tony who were being carried away in that unseaworthy ship. He was afterwards sorry that he wasted so much sympathy upon them. About the time the pilot-boat's crew began to despair of picking up the deserter, and filled away to the city to tell the story of his "deliberate suicide" to eager reporters, who published it in their papers the next morning, and Roy was becoming weary of buffeting the waves, the swim was ended and help speedily came. A friendly billow threw him against one of the swaying hawsers that kept the light-ship in place, and the boy held fast to it. "Boat ahoy!" yelled Roy, with all the strength of his lungs. An instant later the sagging of the cable soused him under; but the wind caught up his voice and carried it across the intervening space to the deck of the light-ship, and when Roy came up again he saw a couple of tarpaulins above her rail, and as many lanterns hanging over the side. "Where away?" shouted a voice, that somewhat resembled the deep bass of a fog-horn. "Here I am; holding fast to the anchor rope," replied Roy. "Can't you see me now?" The boy's hand instinctively went to his head; but the cap he intended to wave in the air to show the light-ship's men where he was, had been left aboard the White Squall to keep company with his shirt-sleeve. But if the men couldn't see him they heard his words, for the wind brought them plainly to their ears; and instead of stopping to ask him what he was doing in the water and how he got there in the first place, they pulled up their lanterns and hurried away. "Hurrah for me!" said Roy to himself. "They've gone to lower a boat and I am all right--" Just then another wave broke over his head; but when he came up again, Roy continued his soliloquy as if nothing had happened. "Or shall be in a few minutes," said he. "I've learned a good many things to-night, and one of them is, that a wind that would keep our Mount Airy people ashore don't bother these deep-water fellows at all. I call this a gale; but these watermen, who are used to such things, run around in small boats as fearlessly as we take to Mirror Lake when there isn't a capful of wind to ruffle the surface." Roy was plunged under a good many times while he waited for the men to come and take him off, but presently their boat hove in sight. She looked too large and heavy for two men to row, but she was built for just the work she was doing now, and Roy Sheldon was not the only one who owed his life to her and the gallant fellows who manned her. She came over the waves like a duck, and almost before Roy knew it he was sitting in her stern-sheets with a heavy coat around him. The men uttered exclamations of astonishment when they saw how he was dressed, but not a question did they ask until they had taken him safe aboard the light-ship and into a warm, well-lighted cabin. "Pull off them wet duds and put on these here," said one of the men, laying some dry clothing on a chair near the stove. "I am sorry to occasion you so much trouble," began Roy, who saw that the oil-skin suits his rescuers wore were dripping with spray. "I have given you a long, hard pull." "Oh, that's nothing," was the reply. "We're used to picking up folks, specially during the racing season when a yacht turns bottom side up now and then. But what made you get sick of your bargain so soon? Why didn't you let yourself go down, like you'd oughter?" "What bargain?" exclaimed Roy. "And why ought I to let myself go down?" "Why, you jumped off that there ship on purpose, 'cause me and my pardner seen you when you done it. We've been kinder looking for you ever since. We didn't go out after you, 'cause number 29's boat struck the water most as soon as you did." "Who bunged your eyes for you?" asked the man who had not spoken before, and who was getting ready to give Roy a pot of hot coffee. "Are they black?" said the boy angrily. He glanced around the cabin, and seeing a small mirror fastened against the bulkhead on the other side, he walked over and looked into it. Yes, his eyes were black. "The ship I deserted from was the White Squall," said Roy; whereupon the light-ship men nodded, as much as to say that the whole matter had been made clear to them. "I didn't belong to her. I was--what do you call it?--shanghaied? Yes; that was what was done to me, and also to the two men who started to row me from Shelly's Island to New London. One of the sailors told me I had better get off if I could see half a chance, and that was the way I came to be in the water. One of the mates knocked me down twice while I was working at the painter of our boat, and pounded me with a piece of rope till--well, look at that," added Roy, who, when he came to pull off his wet shirt, found that he could not do it without assistance. His arm pained him, and he could not use it as readily as usual. This led him to make an examination, and he found that the arm was bruised and discolored from shoulder to elbow. "Yas," remarked one of the men, as if he were speaking of an every-day occurrence, "I've seen a good many such whacks in my time." "Do all officers pound their men in this fashion, and do you fellows submit to it?" cried Roy, in great surprise. "Well, I won't, I bet you. I'll have those two men arrested; the captain for kidnapping me, and the mate for using me up in this way." "Drink this coffee and tell us when you're going to do all that," said one of the men. "Yas," said the other. "And while I am helping you rub them bruises with this arnica, tell us how you're going to do it." "When and how?" repeated Roy, as he submitted to the old sea-dog's rough but kindly administrations. "Yas. You can't get ashore before morning, and by that time the White Squall will be miles and miles at sea. It'll be two years, mebbe three, before she makes this port again, and like as not there won't be a single man in her crew that she took away with her. Then where'll your witnesses be to prove that you was shanghaied, and that the mate knocked you down and beat you with a rope's end?" Roy backed toward the nearest bunk, sat down upon it and took a long and hearty drink of the hot coffee before he made any reply. He had comforted himself with the mental assurance that it would be an easy matter for him to bring the master of the White Squall to justice, but now he discovered that there were difficulties in the way. "Law ain't made for the poor chaps that sail the high seas, but for landsmen," said the one who gave him the coffee. "Sailor-men ain't got no use for it, for nobody cares for them. I've heard enough about that ship and her cap'n to know that I shouldn't like to sail on her, and I tell you that you was mighty lucky to get away with a whole skin. The mate knocked you over while you was trying to cast off your boat; then what happened?" "I made a dash for the other side of the ship and went overboard," answered Roy. "The mate made a grab for me, and besides tearing the sleeve out of my shirt he must have given my arm an awful wrench, for I can hardly lift that pot of coffee with it. There isn't any danger that she will stop and take me off this boat, is there?" The light-ship men chuckled and winked at each other as though they thought Roy had said something amusing. "Bless your simple heart! She's hull down before this time," one of them remarked. "You don't think that a ship that has been loaded and waiting for two or three weeks would stop to pick up a deserter, do you? and him a landsman that don't know one side of the deck from t'other? You'll never see the White Squall again less'n you stay here and look for her. What sort of clothes is them, any way, that you just took off? Looks something like a rowing rig, but 'tain't." Roy replied that it was a bicycle uniform, and then went on to tell his story, hoping that the mention of Rowe Shelly's name might lead the men to give him some information concerning the runaway. They lived but a short distance from his island home, and Roy thought it possible they might know him; but he very soon became satisfied that they didn't. They held little communication with the people on the neighboring islands, all their supplies, as well as the limited number of papers they read, being received from the mainland, and they did not act as though they had ever heard of Rowe Shelly before; but they showed Roy very plainly that there were some portions of his narrative they found it hard to believe. One of them turned on his heel with the remark that the wind didn't "blow to do any hurt," that there was no need of anybody "going aboard a ship for shelter on such a night" as that one was, and went on deck to see how things were going there; while the other, with the suspicion of a smile about his mouth, said to Roy: "You're getting kinder white around the gills. Hadn't you better lay down in that there bunk before it gets worse on you? That's my advice." "I do feel rather queer, that's a fact," answered the boy. "I suppose the pounding and swim together were too much for me." "Yas; I reckon they were. But you'll be all right after a while." The man followed his companion to the deck, and Roy lay down upon the bunk; but very gradually a suspicion crept into his mind that the beating he had received and his long swim in rough water had little to do with his miserable feelings. "I am sea-sick," groaned Roy. "That's what's the matter with me. Being shut up in this warm, close cabin has done the business for me." The boy made a shrewd guess. Many a long hour dragged its weary length away before he was "all right" again. CHAPTER X. THE BOY WHO WOULDN'T BE "PUMPED." All the rest of the night Roy Sheldon, who was ill indeed, rolled and tossed in his bunk without once closing his eyes in sleep. At first he was very much afraid that the light-ship would go down, she pitched so furiously; and as his malady grew upon him, he wished from the bottom of his heart that she would spring a leak and sink, and so put him out of his misery. To make matters worse, his rescuers never came near to sympathize with him, or ask if there was anything they could do to relieve him. They left him to fight the battle alone, and their neglect made Roy so indignant that he resolved he would not speak to them again, not even to thank them for the important service they had rendered him. Shortly after daylight, however, he fell into a refreshing slumber, and when he awoke two hours later his sickness was all gone, and he was as hungry as a wolf. "Well, my hearty," was the cordial way in which he was greeted when he rolled out of his bunk, "you don't look quite as blue about the gills as you did when you turned in. Feel any better? Set down and take another pot of coffee." "Thank you. I feel a good deal more like myself," was Roy's reply. "I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am to you, or how glad I am that I went overboard when I did, and that I succeeded in laying hold of that anchor-rope before my wind and strength gave out. I was getting tired, I tell you. If I were aboard that ship now how far at sea would I be?" "A hundred miles, or such a matter, in this wind, and with a fair chance of seeing furrin countries before you come back." "I would have stood a better chance of becoming food for the sharks, if all I heard about her is true," said Roy, as he seated himself at one end of the mess-chest which served as a table. "The sailor who advised me to desert said he never expected to reach Canton alive. Now, how soon can I get ashore to relieve the anxiety of my friends?" That was a matter that was settled with half a dozen words. He was given to understand that he would be carried over to the nearest pier as soon as he had eaten his breakfast; and his mind being set at rest, he ate a hearty one. When he thanked the men for their kindness they laughed and said "that was all right," and showed some curiosity to know why Roy was so careful to take their names and address. "I like to keep track of my acquaintances," said the boy; "I may want to call upon you at some future time, and if I do, I shall know where to find you." Breakfast being over, Roy, who had put on his own clothes when he left his bunk, climbed into the boat and was pulled ashore. There was a hack-stand near the pier on which he was landed, and although Roy did not know it at the time, Tony and Bob could have put him ashore there the night before if the instructions they received from Colonel Shelly's superintendent had not led them to follow a different course. Being anxious to escape observation Roy took a hurried leave of the light-ship's men, hastened toward the hack-stand, and dived into the first carriage he came to. "Pull up the windows, put down the curtains so that no one can see me, and go for the Lafayette House at your very best licks," said Roy to the astonished driver, who looked critically at the boy's sleeveless shirt and bandaged eye, and seemed in no particular hurry to obey. "Been in a fight?" said he. "Yes; been in half a dozen. Whipped more than forty men, and swam in from a hundred miles out at sea," replied Roy, impatiently. "I've money in my pocket and more at the hotel, if that is what you want to know. Hurry up, and I will give you double fare." That was something the hackman could understand. Looking curiously at his passenger the while he hastened to obey his orders, and in a few seconds had made the carriage as close as an oven. But Roy did not care for that. He settled back in the corner, and wondered what Arthur and Joe would say when he walked into their presence. "I know I am a nice looking object," was his mental reflection, "but I should like to see either one of those fellows go through what I did and come out in better shape. I tell you I have had a narrow escape, and Rowe Shelly, whoever he may be, can thank his lucky stars that he was not in my place. I can't do anything for Bob and Tony, but I can bear those light-ship men in mind, and I will too." With the prospect of a double fare before him the hackman drove as rapidly as he dared, and when he drew rein in front of the hotel to which he had been directed, Roy threw open the door and jumped out, crossed the wide sidewalk with a few swift steps, and sought concealment behind one of the front doors, every move he made being closely followed by the driver, who wanted to make sure of his money before he let his strange passenger out of sight. Then came that hurried interview with the hotel clerk, who could hardly be made to believe that Roy Sheldon was not Robert Barton, after which the new-comer went to his room to change his clothes and send the porter out for a new helmet to take the place of the one he had left on board the White Squall. "There," said Roy, as he stood before the mirror and tied a clean handkerchief over his left eye, "that looks a little more respectable, but not much. I must have a pretty hard head or that mate would have knocked me senseless. Suppose he had, and that I had been kicked out of the way or carried down into the forecastle, and never come to myself until this morning! I'd been a hundred miles or more at sea, and in a rotten old ship that is liable to go to pieces in the very first storm she encounters. It makes me shudder to think of it." Having fixed himself up as well as he could, Roy went downstairs and into the reading-room to wait for Joe and Arthur to "show up." At the same time a sharp-looking gentleman, whose eyes were everywhere at once, walked briskly up to the clerk's desk and leaned upon it. "What do you know?" said he. "I must make out a column some way or other, and if you don't help me out, I shall always think you ought to." "I don't know a thing," replied the clerk. "Go into the reading-room and pump that fellow with the bunged-up eye. He's a wheelman from Mount Airy. Came in yesterday with two others, and got into trouble before he had fairly eaten his supper. That's his name right there," added the clerk, as the sharp-looking man, who was a newspaper reporter, pulled a note-book from his pocket and wrote something in it in short-hand. "He just as good as told me that he was mistaken for Rowe Shelly, kidnapped and taken over to the island, and barely escaped being carried to sea." "On what vessel?" exclaimed the reporter, showing some excitement and no little interest. "Don't know. Didn't think to ask him, for he was in a great hurry to go to his room." "So Rowe Shelly has skipped again, has he?" said the reporter. "That won't do me any good, for Shelly owns some of our stock and we can't dip into his private affairs. Don't tell anybody else of it, there's a good fellow, for I want to get a scoop on this whole business. Did this what's his name--Sheldon, look as though he had been in the water?" "Come to think of it, he did. His uniform was shrunk and mussed, one sleeve of his shirt was missing, and both his eyes were blacked. At least one was, for I saw it. He kept the other covered up." "I'll bet it's the same chap. Haven't you seen this morning's _Tribune_? Well, there's an article in it, with the blackest kind of headlines, entitled, 'Mutiny in the Harbor. A Sailor prefers Death to a Voyage in the White Squall,' and so forth and so on, _et cetera_. One of our fellows wrote that up, and now you just watch me get the sequel. Hoop-la! My column's safe. How'll I know him--by his bunged-up eyes?" "Look right through the door. That's him, with the blue uniform on and a paper in his hand. But hold on a minute," said the clerk, as the reporter turned away. "If you mean to get anything out of him you'll have to be sly about it, for he says he won't be pumped." "Oh, won't he? We'll see about that." Roy Sheldon, who was deeply interested in that article in the _Tribune_, and congratulating himself on the fact that his name was not mentioned in it, and that consequently his father and mother would never hear of his adventure until he was ready to tell them about it, did not so much as raise his eyes when the reporter came in and sat down near him. He went on with his reading until he heard a pleasant voice say: "Good morning, Mr. Sheldon. You have had a pretty rough experience, have you not?" If the chair in which he was sitting had suddenly given away and let him down on the floor, Roy would not have been half as much astonished as he was when he heard himself addressed in this way by a man whom he had never seen before. He looked at him over the top of his paper, and then drew his head down behind it; whereupon the reporter pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face to conceal the smile that came to his lips. "Of course you don't mind what those light-ship men said to _me_," he continued. "Oh! did they tell you about it?" exclaimed Roy, and that was all the reporter wanted to show him that he was on the right track. Being shrewd and experienced in his profession, he had already made up his mind just what that 'sequel' was going to be. The sailor, who was seen by the captain of pilot-boat number twenty-nine to jump into the harbor, was not a seafaring man, but a wheelman. He had succeeded in reaching the light-ship, whose crew rescued him, brought him ashore in the morning, and here he was. Roy had told the clerk he would not be interviewed; but that did not worry the reporter. "Yes; I have heard all about it," said he. "You see, I am the fellow who supplies those light-ship men with some of their reading-matter." "Oh," said Roy again, "I was afraid you might be a reporter." "My dear sir, do I look as if I were that low down in the world? What's the reason you don't want to see any news-gatherers? You have been the hero of an adventure, and most boys would like to see it in print." "It's in print already, but fortunately the man who wrote about it did not know my name," replied Roy. "There's a long account of it in the _Tribune_?" "And is that account correct?" "Perfectly. But my father takes the _Tribune_, and if he had seen my name in that article he would have ordered me home in short order." "And you don't want to go, I suppose?" "Certainly not," answered Roy, who then went on to tell where he _did_ want to go; and to prove that his father would be likely to tell him to come home if he got into trouble, he related what Mr. Wayring had done when he learned through the New London papers that Matt Coyle had tied Joe to a tree and threatened to beat him with switches. "I remember of reading about that," said the reporter. "One of the _Tribune's_ staff was stopping at the Sportsman's Home at the time, and he was the one who wrote it up. I don't blame you for not wanting your name mentioned in connection with that little episode in the harbor last night, and you are wise in keeping your weather eye open for reporters. That's the only one you can keep open, isn't it? Who shut up the other one for you?" It was by such ingenious and apparently disinterested questions as these, that the reporter gradually led Roy Sheldon on to tell his story from beginning to end. He was really astonished when the boy brought his narrative to a close, and told himself that he was master of some secrets that would eventually bring Colonel Shelly and his superintendent into trouble, and the runaway Rowe into his rights. More than one reporter has run to earth criminals whom the best detectives could not track, and Roy's visitor suddenly resolved that he would do a little in that line himself. He would have given something handsome to know where Rowe was at that minute and what he intended to do; but Roy could not enlighten him. On the other hand, he asked the reporter to tell him what he knew about Rowe himself. "That boy is well fixed over there on the island," said he. "Everybody is kind to him, he has everything money can buy, and he wouldn't run away unless there was good cause for it," said Roy. "I wasn't on the island long enough to learn much about him; can't you tell me something?" "I am sorry to say I can't," said the reporter, as he arose from his chair. "I have never been on the island, and don't know the first thing about Rowe Shelly and his family relations, except what I have heard in a roundabout way. Look here," he added, sinking his voice almost to a whisper; "do you see those three fellows talking with the clerk? Look out for them. They are reporters for evening papers. Tell 'em you're busy--that your eyes are so black you can't talk to 'em--tell 'em anything you can think of, for if you don't, they will have you in print sure pop. So-long, and a pleasant trip if I don't see you again before you leave the city." So saying the reporter winked at Roy, and hurried away to write up the "sequel" for the evening edition of his paper, while Roy hid behind his copy of the _Tribune_. The three men against whom he had been warned came in at last, but if they wanted information they did not get much. Roy was very unsociable, and they finally departed with the conviction that the _Tribune's_ man had been too sharp for them this time. Roy's next visitor was Willis, and the next two were Joe Wayring and Arthur Hastings, who would scarcely have recognized him if it had not been for his uniform. They listened in great amazement to his story, which I afterward heard just as I have tried to tell it, and never once said a word to interrupt him. Arthur's indignation was almost unbounded; while the clear-sighted Joe saw two or three things in the narrative which proved to his satisfaction that Roy's visit to the White Squall was not purely accidental. But the trouble was, Roy himself did not think so, and he had not really said anything that was calculated to throw suspicion upon the superintendent. It was plain, however, that Willis was afraid he might say something, for as soon as Roy's story was finished he got upon his feet and put on his hat. "As you remarked a little while ago, 'all's well that ends well,'" said he. "I am heartily glad you got safely out of that scrape, Mr. Sheldon, and hope you will speedily recover from the effects of your treatment at the hands of that brutal mate. I wish he might be punished for it; but it is just as those men on the light-ship told you. The White Squall will not return for two or three years, and by that time the men who now comprise her crew may be scattered to the ends of the globe. I wish you good-morning, and a pleasant run across the State." So saying, Willis bowed himself out of the reading-room, and Babcock went with him, leaving the three friends alone. "Say, old fellow," exclaimed Joe, settling back in his chair and looking at Roy, "you've more pluck than I ever gave you credit for, but not half as much mother-wit." "What has gone wrong with you now?" asked Roy, in reply. "Nothing whatever; but if you don't find that something has gone wrong with you, I shall miss my guess. And you are the boy who wouldn't be pumped, are you? Well, you are a good one." "I tell you I didn't give those three reporters the first grain of information," said Roy, bridling up. "No; but you gave the first one who gained your ear all the information he wanted. That fellow who came his Oily Gammon over you and told you that he supplied the light-ship's crew with a portion of their reading matter, was a reporter. He'll have the whole thing in his paper to night, and you will have to go home." "And that means all of us," added Arthur. "No!" gasped Roy, alarmed by the thought. "Let's get away from the city without an hour's delay. If we do that, we can prolong our run as far as Bloomingdale; for you know that was the first place at which we were to stop for letters." "But you can't ride," said Joe. "What's the reason I can't?" inquired Roy. "I know my arm is almost useless, but my legs are all right, as I will show you when we are fairly on the road again. Say, fellows, let's make the pace hot enough to reach Bloomingdale and get beyond it before any return orders can catch us." "Why not avoid the place altogether?" suggested Arthur. "Have you had your arm examined by a surgeon?" Roy said he hadn't thought of it, and Arthur continued: "Then we'll have it done at once. If he says you can ride, we'll take to the road at once. If he says you can't, that settles it." Great was their relief when the medical man, to whom they were directed, told Roy that, although he had received a pretty severe fall (he thought Roy had taken a header and the latter was quite willing to have it so), he would be able to continue the run provided he could manage his wheel with one hand, and would promise not to run too fast. "But," added the doctor, "it's a little the queerest hurt I ever saw from a header. I don't quite see how you managed to black both your eyes and injure your arm in one fall. If you had been in a fight with the canalers I could understand it. You mustn't think of going on for at least two or three days. Lie still to-morrow and next day, take a short run on Saturday, stop over somewhere in the country on Sunday, and make a fresh start on Monday." When the boys heard this their countenances fell; but, as Arthur had said, "that settled it." All they could do was to make themselves miserable for the rest of the day and the whole of the two succeeding ones. They could not even visit their friends in the city, for if they did, every one would want to know where Roy Sheldon was, and why he didn't show himself. "I'm a pretty looking fellow to go calling, am I not?" said the latter dolefully. "It can't be done, boys. I'd have to tell the truth, and I might as well go home at once as to do that. I'm going to hug my room the best I know how, and you'll have to see that I don't starve; for now that I have found you, I am not going to exhibit myself in that reading-room again. Now, come up-stairs and tell me all you know about Rowe Shelly." The story his friends had to tell was not near as long as his own, but it was fully as interesting. It required but a few words from them to make everything clear to Roy's comprehension. The man who claimed to be Colonel Shelly and Rowe's guardian was a fraud, the boy's parents were still living, and he was determined to find them in spite of all the obstacles that could be thrown in his way. That was all there was of it. "I hope from the bottom of my heart that he will succeed," said Roy earnestly. "When I was in the water swimming for the light-ship, I felt bitter toward everybody; but now that I have come safely out of the worst scrape I ever was in, I don't feel so. The clerk, who evidently knows a little about Rowe and his affairs, declared that he was a fool for running away, but somehow I couldn't believe it. Now I know he isn't. If one of us was in his place they'd have to put guards all around that island to keep him there." "How far was it from the White Squall to the light-ship?" "About twice as far as Mirror Lake is wide. The swim wasn't anything to be afraid of, but the rough water--" "And the sharks," interposed Arthur. "By gracious!" exclaimed Roy, jumping up from the bed on which he had but a moment before laid himself down. "I never thought of sharks, and I'm glad I didn't. It would have made a coward of me sure, and I was near enough to that as it was. But they do have them around that light-ship, don't they? I have seen the fact stated in the papers before now. It took all the pluck I had to face the waves, and if I had thought of sharks I don't believe you ever would have seen me again." "Rowe wouldn't have had the courage to do what you did," observed Arthur. "I don't think he would," said Joe. "But then he never would have been called upon to do it, for that man Willis would not have sent him aboard the White Squall to be carried to sea." "You don't think Willis got Tony and Bob and me shanghaied on purpose, do you?" exclaimed Roy, who had not dreamed of such a thing. "You are surely mistaken. I saw those men driven to duty with a piece of rope." "I don't say they knew they were going to be kidnapped when they took you aboard that vessel, but that it was a part of the superintendent's plan for getting rid of the whole of you," replied Joe, who then went on to tell why he thought so. Three different sailor men with whom Roy had conversed assured him that the wind didn't blow to hurt anything, that there was no need that anybody in a small boat should seek shelter on a vessel on such a night as last night was, and if Roy could not see that that proved something, he was by no means as bright as Joe thought he was. "I can see it now," said Roy. "If I could only bring it home to him wouldn't I--" "No doubt you would: but there's the trouble. You can't prove anything. I am sorry you let that reporter bamboozle you into telling him all about your adventure. The fellows he told you to look out for were on rival papers, and it was his business to keep them from getting any information out of you if he could. I wish the evening papers were out." The others wished so too, but four long hours passed before the voice of the newsboy was heard in the street, and then Arthur made a rush for the door. When he returned he had a copy of all the evening papers on sale, but the _Tribune_ was the only one Roy cared to see, and it was promptly passed over to him. "Here it is in black and white," he groaned, almost as soon as he opened the sheet. "'A Plucky Wheelman. Something that might have been a Tragedy. The Truth about it.' Read it out and then go and pound that reporter." Arthur complied with many misgivings, but as he read he often paused to look at his chums, who stared at him and at each other in turn. Everything that happened on board the White Squall was truthfully described, the brutality of the ship's officers was denounced in no measured terms, Roy's short but desperate struggle with the mate was told in graphic language, but the only ones whose real names were mentioned were the two light-ship men, Captain Jack Rowan and the scoundrel Crawford. Roy Sheldon was called Peter Smith without a word of excuse or apology, while Rowe Shelly, his guardian, and Willis, the superintendent, were not spoken of at all. The boys could not understand it; but then they did not know that Rowe's guardian was part owner of the _Tribune_ and had influence enough to cause the discharge of any man on it who did not write to suit him. As soon as Arthur finished the article they all went to work to examine the other papers; but there was nothing in them about the "Plucky Wheelman." The _Tribune_ had a "scoop" on all its competitors. "That bangs me," said Roy, at length. "It suits you, does it not?" "Perfectly. It's better than I thought it could be. Of course our folks will read it, but they'll never dream that one of us had anything to do with it. That reporter is a brick. You needn't mind pounding him, boys." "Thank you," said Joe, drily. "I had no intention of trying anything of the kind. I have heard of fellows going out to thrash newspaper men and coming home on a shutter. It might have been so in this case." Arthur Hasting voiced the sentiments of his companions when he said he felt as if a big load had been taken off his shoulders. Their run wasn't "blocked" after all. CHAPTER XI. ON THE ROAD AGAIN. Although Roy Sheldon and his friends were greatly relieved, and felt duly thankful to the reporter who had concealed the "plucky wheelman's" identity under a fictitious name, and thus prevented their trip from being brought to a sudden end, they were none the less impatient to take the road again, and their two days of enforced inactivity hung heavily on their hands. It would not be prudent for them to call upon their friends in the city, for, as Roy ruefully affirmed, they would have to tell them the truth, and they might as well go home as to do that. Concealment was the only thing left to them, but reading and sleeping, with an occasional discussion of their recent experience, were monotonous ways for healthy boys to pass the time. Roy's bruises demanded a little of their care and attention, and before long he had the satisfaction of knowing that his arm was not as lame as it had been, and that his eyes were slowly resuming their natural color. But it was two weeks before the wondering rustics ceased to turn and gaze after him as he wheeled swiftly along the road. Saturday morning came at last, and after a light breakfast the three Columbias were brought from their dark closet and set in motion again. Of course we--that is, my two companions and I--knew nothing of the strange things that had taken place on the night we were put into our closet for safe-keeping, and we were on the road at least a week before we heard as much of the story as I have already told you. We were fully two hundred miles from New London when we, most unexpectedly, heard more of it, and back in Mount Airy when we heard the conclusion; so you see I am not yet through with the events that grew out of Roy Sheldon's visit to the city. Saturday's run was short, for my master insisted that the doctor's orders should be implicitly obeyed, but still it was a hard one. Before they were fairly out of the city limits the sand that was "knee-deep" obstructed their way, and made the young wheelmen cast longing glances toward the tow-path which was in plain view. But the sight of several groups of ragged urchins, some of whom tried hard and perseveringly to get a stone up to them, and the knowledge that one of their number was in no condition for a fight, if one was forced upon them, made them keep to the highway. "But I tell you we'll not do it on Monday for all the canalers in the State," said Roy that night, when he and his companions dismounted before the little inn that was to be their stopping place. "We are so far out of the city now that we shall not see very many boats, and as often as we come in sight of a settlement of shanties, we'll climb up to the road and go around it." The proprietor of the inn said he was used to the company of wheelmen, and the bountiful supper he set before the boys proved that he was. He gave them comfortable beds too, and on Monday morning showed them a path by which they could take their wheels down to the bank of the canal. It was much easier riding there than it was on the highway, but, as the Omaha wheelman said, they found the "unspeakable mule" there. They met a good many boats going into the city, and nearly every one of them was towed by a span of these interesting creatures. The boys dismounted and got out of the way as often as they saw them coming, but the mules were not to be deceived or cheated out of a stampede by any such shallow artifice as that. They saw the glittering wheels, and that was enough for them. They invariably turned like a flash and tore back along the path as though they were frightened out of their wits, but always stopped their headlong flight just in time to avoid being jerked into the canal. It seemed to me that reasonable persons would have been satisfied with the precautions taken by the boys to avoid trouble, but I soon learned that the boatmen were not reasonable. They swore lustily, hurling their oaths at mules and cyclists with perfect impartiality, and now and then a very angry captain would order his steersman to "hold her clost in to the bank so't he could jump ashore an' pitch them nuisances into the drink"; but when the boys heard such talk as that they mounted and sped lightly along, leaving the captain to recover his good-nature as soon as he got ready, and the driver to manage the mules in anyway he could. By following this course, and by making a flank movement on every "settlement of shanties" that hove in sight, they finally reached Bloomingdale without doing very much riding in the sand. They were now about a hundred and forty miles from home, and considered their journey fairly begun. Leaving out their first night in New London, they were more than pleased with their experience. Their health was perfect, their brains, to quote from Roy Sheldon, were "as clear as whistles," and they felt equal to any amount of hard work either on the road or at the table. Taking timid women, skittish horses, foolish mules, peppery canal-boat captains, combative boys and ugly dogs into consideration, a trip like this had just enough of the exciting and perilous in it to make it interesting. Although my master and his chums longed to hear from home, they opened the letters they found waiting for them in Bloomingdale with some fear and trembling. As I looked at it, it did not seem possible that adventures like Roy Sheldon's, and an exploit such as he had performed, could be kept covered up for any length of time (I have been told that such things have a way of "leaking out somewhere"), nor was it at all probable that every one who heard of them would be as considerate of Roy's wishes as the _Tribune_ reporter had shown himself to be. I awaited the result with as much excitement as Roy Sheldon exhibited when he seated himself on the porch in front of the hotel and opened one of his mother's letters--the one that bore the latest date. I saw him run his eyes over the closely written pages, and when he laid that letter aside and picked up another, intending to read them in the order in which they were written, I knew before he said a word that his fears were groundless and that no return orders had been received. "My folks don't suspect anything; how is it with yours?" said he, gleefully. "Mother doesn't say a word about Peter Smith who was shanghaied and jumped overboard to escape being carried to sea, and that's all the evidence I want that she does not think I am that identical Peter." Thanks to the thoughtful reporter, who did not want Roy to be called home although he _did_ want all the news the boy had it in his power to give him, the truth was never suspected, and after a short rest the young wheelmen turned their backs upon the tow-path and the pugnacious youngsters who lived beside it, and struck out again, this time running through a fine farming country, with just enough timber along the road to break the monotony of the scenery, and afford them shade as often as they felt inclined to take a breathing spell. They were not the only cyclists on the road, as they found before they had left Bloomingdale a dozen miles behind. They were wheeling along in Indian file at a moderate pace, when Joe Wayring, who brought up the rear, was surprised to hear a voice close to him say: "If you have a mind to listen to it, I believe I can give you young gentlemen a word of advice that may some day be of use to you." And before Joe could turn his head, a tall stranger on a big wheel rode up beside him. "Where have you come from and where are you going, if it is a fair question?" he continued, after returning Joe's greeting. "I judge from your bundles that you are on a trip; but I guess you haven't been out very long, or else you followed a different route from mine, for you are not half as dirty as I am." This broke the ice, and in a few minutes the boys were on the best of terms with the strange wheelman, who could not, however, give them any "pointers" regarding their route, for he was going another way, and besides he was depending entirely upon his road-book. He had been out four weeks, but was on the way home now, weighed twenty pounds more than he did when he set out, and felt strong enough to tackle any dinner that was set before him. My master expressed his regrets because the stranger was not going their way, and asked him what that word of advice was he said he could give them. "You wobble too much," said the wheelman, coming to the point at once. "I have been following behind for the last mile or so, and took notice of the fact that an eighteen inch plank would scarcely be wide enough to cover your tracks." "I've noticed that too," replied Roy, "but never thought it worth while to take the trouble to ride any differently. What's the odds so long as one has the whole road to wobble in?" "None whatever," said the stranger, with a laugh, "only experts who come on your track will think you are not at all careful as to your style, or else they will put you down as new hands at the business. But suppose you should come to a railroad bridge with only a single plank laid down for one to walk upon. If you tried to run over it you would go off sure; and it would be a job to dismount and carry your wheels. Besides, when you got home you wouldn't like to confess that you had done such a thing." "But you see we haven't found any bridges of that sort in our way yet, and we don't mean to," replied Joe. "Our plan is to follow the road and keep clear of the tracks." "That's the resolve I made when I set out, but I haven't held to it. I am pretty well satisfied now that you are not very far from home." "What makes you think so?" "Because you don't seem to care anything for distance; but wait until you have been in the saddle a week at a stretch, and you will be glad to cut off all the miles you can. You will find that the railroad generally follows the shortest route between two points, and if you have made up your minds to stop for the night at a certain place, you will want to get there the easiest way you can. That's the time you will probably take to the track and find some of the bridges I spoke of a minute ago." The boys traveled several miles in company with the pleasant stranger who, to quote once more from Roy Sheldon, "was just chuck full of good stories and advice," and it was with much regret that they took leave of him, saw him turn off from their route and continue his journey alone. How often it happens that little things bring about great events! You shall presently see what grew out of this short interview which happened by the merest accident. "From this day forward I mend my style of riding," said Joe Wayring, when their chance companion had been left out of sight. "I never knew before that a wheelman left traces by which an expert could judge of his skill, but I know it now, and by this time next week I bet you I'll be steady enough to ride a six-inch plank on top of the highest railroad bridge in the country." The others said the same, and from that moment began exercising more care in the management of their wheels. If that stranger could have come up behind them now, he would not have seen so many zig-zag tracks in the road. But no doubt he would have laughed at them for so quickly forgetting their resolve to "stick to the highway and steer clear of the railroad tracks"; for that was just what they did. Before a week had passed over their heads they began to realize that it required a good many motions with the pedals to take them a day's journey, and bring them to the place at which they had beforehand decided to pass the night, that there was a good deal of sameness in wheeling, in spite of the new scenes and new faces that were constantly coming before them, and they were not so very long in learning by actual test that "the railroad usually follows the shortest route between two points." But, strange to say, they encountered but few cattle-guards, no bridges or trestle-works, and the culverts were so well covered that they scarcely knew when they passed over them. Except when following these short cuts they adhered rigidly to the instructions laid down in their road-book, but one day even that guide, which ought to have been infallible, led them astray; and here is the passage that did the mischief: "After a good nooning among the Bergen shades a bee-line can be struck for Dorchester, over a road with occasional patches of sand. Luckily these patches can be avoided by making use of portages in the shape of the ever-welcome cow-path, which winds off to the side of the road most conveniently. The cow figures most usefully in touring as a path-maker in districts where the road commissioners are derelict. Also as a dispenser of a beverage which is the best of all drinks anywhere, and especially on the road." The guide-book also went on to say that at one place along the route a cow-path led directly to a brook, at which the weary and hungry wheelman might stop and cast a line with a more than reasonable expectation of catching a good-sized trout for his dinner. "We've struck it," said Arthur, who had read aloud the route for that particular day before the three left their hotel in the morning. "Here's the sand, and it's knee-deep too, as sand always is. Now, where is the cow-path that leads to the brook?" "Here's a path, but whether it goes to the brook or not, I can't guess," answered Joe. "Let's try it, and see if it will take us to a dispenser of that beverage, whatever it is, the book speaks of." "It's milk," said Roy, smacking his lips. "I'd a little rather have it off the ice, but I wouldn't refuse it warm just now, for I am thirsty and hungry besides." "That's nothing new," retorted Joe. "You've been that way ever since we left home. Come on, fellows. Somebody has been through here, for the most of the branches have been removed, and a log or two cut out of the path." "What is that welcome sound that comes faintly to my ears?" said Roy, in a heavy voice, as he mounted his wheel and followed his leader through the woods. "Is it what Byron calls the tocsin of the soul, the dinner bell? No; it is a cow bell. Push on, Joe. Who's got a cup handy?" Their first hard work was to locate the cow which wore the bell, and their second to ascertain whether or not she would permit the boys to approach her on short acquaintance. They had no trouble at all in going straight to the little glade from which the bell sounded, for the path took them to it. There were half a dozen cows in sight, but they were evidently accustomed to having wheelmen intrude upon them, for they merely looked at the boys and went on with their feeding. The three bicycles were leaned against convenient trees, the cup Roy wanted was quickly brought to light, and then Joe and Arthur began a cautious stalking of the nearest cow. "That's no way to do business," said Roy, who brought up the rear with the cup in his hand. "Go straight up to her as if you had a secret to tell her, for if you go to sneaking she'll get suspicious and dig out. That's the way to do it, Joe. Now scratch her on the neck or behind the horns, and I'll soon have a cupful of that beverage which is the best of all drinks anywhere, and especially on the road. I declare, she's as gentle as an old cow, and it's going to be a good deal easier than I thought. Art, you had better lumber back to the bikes and bring two more cups. We'll have a jolly tuck-out on milk while we are about it." In a few minutes more three hungry and tired boys, each with a brimming cup of rich country milk in one hand and a sandwich in the other, were sitting on the ground under the shade of a spreading beech, enjoying a substantial lunch and fervently thanking the author of their road-book for his timely suggestions regarding cow-paths and the kindly animals which made them. Of course it was much better than any lunch they ever had at home, and they had but one fault to find with it; there wasn't enough of it. "I move that we let that trout brook alone," said Joe. "We are not so hungry but that we can stand it until we reach the end of our day's run, and besides, we can find better angling nearer home when we have more time at our disposal." "That's what I say," chimed in Arthur. "We've twelve miles farther to go, and I am in favor of setting out at once; for the longer we stay here the lazier we'll get. Let's follow the path until we get on the other side of those patches of sand, and then make the pace hot and get to Dorchester as soon as we can. We'll have to lie by to-morrow, for it's going to rain." The clouds certainly looked threatening, and the prospect of being caught in a smart shower before they could reach the shelter of the hotel at which they intended to stop for the night, was enough to put energy even into Roy Sheldon, who was called the laziest boy in the party. He didn't want to be put to the trouble of cleaning the mud off his fine wheel before he went to bed; so he led the way at a brisk gait, paying little or no attention to where he was going so long as the path was smooth and plain, and the first thing he knew he was brought up standing by a brush pile in front of him. "This bangs me; now where's the trail?" was all he had to say about it. "It has ended as nearly all trails do," replied Joe, quoting from one of his favorite authors and trying to get a glimpse at the clouds through the net-work of branches above his head. "It branched off to right and left, grew dimmer and slimmer, degenerated into a rabbit path, petered out in a squirrel track, ran up a tree and lost itself in a knot-hole." "But I don't think I shall go up to find it," answered Roy. "It will be easier to take the back track." And it was easier to say that than it was to do it, as Arthur Hastings found when he came to make the attempt. When the line faced about he became the leader, and before he had gone a dozen yards he found himself at fault. The ground was so hard and so thickly covered with leaves that their wheels left no trail that could be followed, and as the bell had been left out of hearing they could not find the glade. To make matters worse, all the signs seemed to indicate that the cows which were pastured there had done nothing during the past year but travel about from one end of the wood-lot to the other; for the trails they had made were numerous, and twisted about in the most bewildering way. In sheer desperation Arthur turned into every one he came to, trundling his wheel beside him, and his companions blindly followed in his wake. "This will begin to get interesting if we don't get out pretty soon," said Joe, glancing at his watch. "Night is coming on apace and we're twelve miles from shelter." "But we are within easy reach of our blankets, matches and camp-axes," replied Arthur, "and if we have to sleep in the woods, it will not be the first time we have done it." "But we haven't a bite to eat," groaned the hungry boy of the party. At last Arthur fell back to the rear and gave place to Joe Wayring, who in his turn gave way to Roy; but one guide was about as good as another, for all the best of them did was to lead his companions farther from the road they wanted to find and deeper into the woods. There were paths enough, otherwise they would have found it impossible to walk as far as they did, for the bushes on each side were so thick that they could not have carried their wheels through them. But the difficulty was, those paths ran in every direction, and did not tend toward any particular point of the compass. The woods grew darker every minute, and at last, when they were beginning to talk seriously of making a camp and going supper-less to bed, Roy Sheldon shouted out that he could see daylight before him, and presently the three boys emerged from the woods. "I knew I could bring you out if you would trust to my superior knowledge of woodcraft," said Roy complacently. "I tell you, you can't lose me in any little piece of woods like this." "But what sort of a place have you brought us to with your superior knowledge?" exclaimed Arthur. "This isn't our road." "I didn't say it was, my friend," was Roy's reply. "I simply said I had brought you out of the woods." "Only to lose us again," chimed in Joe. "This is a railroad." "And a one-track concern at that," said Arthur. "Crooked as a ram's horn, so that we can't see a train until it is close upon us, and consequently dangerous. It's been raining hard here. The ditches on each side are full of water." "Which means muddy wheels to clean to-night in case a train drives us off the track. Shall we try it?" "Of course. But which end of the road will take us to our destination? That's what I should like to know." "Ask us something easy," answered Joe, as he lifted his wheel over the ditch and placed it upon the track. "Dorchester must be at one end or the other, but we'll have to go it blind. Which way shall we start?" added Joe, who while he was speaking kept turning his wheel first up and then down the track. "The majority rules." "That way," said Roy. "Come on then. Let's cover as many miles as we can while daylight lasts. We'll have to touch a match to our lamps pretty soon." It was fine wheeling on the hard road-bed, and Joe Wayring made the pace hot enough to satisfy anybody but a professional racer; but fast as he went, the darkness traveled faster, and when they had gone about three miles, he suggested that the lamps ought to be lighted. "These thick woods and high banks on each side shut out what little light there is," said he, "and it is darker where we are than it ought to be. We have never been this way before, and no one knows how soon we may blunder into a cattle-guard and get a broken head without a chance to see what hurt us." Another start at a more moderate pace was made as soon as the lamps had been lit, and by the time the fourth mile had been left behind, it was as dark as a pocket. This was a new experience, and the boys did not like it. Although they had often seen wheelmen running about the streets when it was so dark they could not tell where they were going, Joe and his chums had never tried to do it themselves, because they did not like to trust so much to luck. A small stone or a stick which some careless boy had left in the track might send them to the ground, and my master was not fond of taking headers. Thus far he and his friends had been very fortunate in avoiding any very serious falls, and they did not care to run any risk of spoiling their record. But Joe came within a hair's breadth of scoring a bad fall on this particular night. Although he thought he was paying especial attention to the road close in front of him, he was really paying more to the rippling of a brook that flowed through a yawning gulf on his right hand, and at the same time he was keeping a bright lookout for a locomotive headlight. "That's an awful pokerish place over in there," Arthur remarked, jerking his head sideways toward the ravine of which I have spoken, "and the railroad seems to have been built on the very brink of it. Why didn't the engineers cut out more of the hill on the opposite side and put it farther--eh?" A warning shout from Joe Wayring cut short Arthur's criticism, and brought him and Roy to a sudden halt. There was a rock lying on the track, and it was so large that it covered the rails on both sides. Then followed that hurried consultation which I have recorded at the beginning of my story. While it was going on Joe, with the aid of his lamp, examined the face of the bluff, and could distinctly trace the path made by the bowlder when it rolled down from the top, and the others took a good look at the rock itself. Two things were plain to them: The rock was on the track, and they could not muster force enough to get it off. The first train that came along would find it there, as well as a gulf of unknown depth ready to receive all the cars that were tumbled into it. "Suppose it should be a passenger train?" gasped Roy. "Or an excursion?" added Arthur. Something must be done, and that, too, with out the loss of a moment. CHAPTER XII. JOE'S WILD RIDE. "Boys, we've got to stop that train," said Joe, speaking rapidly but calmly. "But how do we know which way it is coming from?" asked Roy, who did not show half as much pluck now as he did while he was struggling with the mate on board the White Squall. "We don't know," answered Joe. "It's our business to find out. Art, you go back along the way we have come, and I'll go ahead. Roy, you stay here and be ready to signal either way in case anything happens to us and we don't succeed in stopping the train. Raise your lamp as high in the air as you can and lower it suddenly. That's 'down brakes' on the Mount Airy road, and I suppose the signal is the same the world over. At any rate an engineer with half sense will understand it. Off we go now. Don't be reckless of headers, Art, but speed along lively." In two seconds more my master and Arthur Hastings were hurrying away in different directions, and Roy, having carried his wheel across the ditch and placed it against the face of the bluff, was sitting on the rock with his lamp in his hand. In another two seconds Joe and I whirled around a sharp bend and were out of sight of everybody. That was the wildest and most reckless run I ever undertook, for my master did not by any means follow the advice he had given Arthur Hastings. When Joe Wayring went into a thing he went in with his whole heart. I went ahead faster that I had ever been driven before, but a tricycle could not have run with more steadiness. Joe did not need the whole road-bed to travel in as he would if he had attempted a fast gait a week before, but held me firmly in one track. I could plainly see the way for a short distance in front of me, catch the glimmering of the wet rails on each side, and hear the faint "swishing" sound made by the rubber tires as they spurned the ground under them; but all on a sudden this sound ceased--or, rather, it gave way to a very low rumble, such as I had never heard before. The high bank on the left sank out of sight; the gurgling of the stream far below became a roar; solid walls of blackness surrounded us on all sides, relieved only by that little streak of light in front; and to my inexpressible horror I discovered that we no longer had the firm road-bed beneath us. We had left it, and were rushing with almost breathless speed over a trestle-work whose height could only be guessed at. An eight-inch plank nailed to the timbers between the tracks was our pathway. It was plenty wide enough for Joe, now that he had "mended his style of riding," if the plank had only been on the ground, and he had had daylight to show him where he was going; but there was plenty of room for accident. Suppose the plank should not extend entirely across the trestle, which was so long that I began to wonder if there was any other end to it! Or what if a tire should come off? Such accidents sometimes happen to the most careful bicyclists, and when I pictured to myself Joe Wayring lying stunned and bleeding among those timbers, and in danger of slipping through into the rocky bed of the stream beneath while I toppled over the edge--when I thought of these things, I shivered so violently that my nickel-plated spokes would have rattled if they had not been tangent and tied together. As for Joe Wayring, there was not the faintest exclamation from him to show that he realized his danger, although I knew well enough that he couldn't help seeing it. If his nerves had not been in perfect health, something disastrous would surely have happened. He struck the plank and passed over thirty feet of its length before he had time to take in the situation. Once started along the trestle he had to go on; there was no help for it. The light from the lamp was all thrown ahead, and an effort to dismount in the darkness might have resulted in a disabling fall among the timbers with me on top. Then what would become of the train, if it approached from the direction in which he was going? Plainly his only chance was to keep in motion; and Joe not only did that, but he laid out extra power on the pedals, and sent me ahead with increased speed. The rails looked like two continuous streaks of light, and the timbers passed behind with such rapidity that they presented the appearance of a solid floor. So great was our speed that by the time I had thought of all this, and become so badly frightened that I would have tumbled over if my momentum had not kept me right side up, that low rumbling sound ceased as suddenly as it had begun, the graveled road-bed, trodden smooth in the middle, shot into view and came rushing under the wheels, two high bluffs came out of the darkness and shut us in on both sides, and the trestle and its terrors were left behind. At the same instant, as if by a preconcerted signal, a bright light appeared far up the track, which at this point was perfectly straight, and another still nearer. The first was from the headlight of the approaching train, and the second was emitted by a lantern in the hands of a man who seemed to be searching for something, for he held his light first toward one rail and then toward the other. He was moving away from us. "It's the track-walker," gasped Joe, as he sounded his bell; and those were the first words I had heard him speak since we left the rock. "Suppose I had run onto him while I was scooting along that narrow plank! I'd be dead now, sure." The moment the man with the lantern heard the bell he faced about; but, to my surprise, he did not appear to be at all alarmed. The orders he straightway began shouting at us showed conclusively that he was used to wheelmen and their methods. "Git aff the track, ye shpalpeen," he yelled, frantically flourishing his lantern in the air. "Don't ye see the kyars coming forninst ye, an' haven't I towled ye times widout number, that if ye gets killed ye can't get no damages from the company? Will yees git aff the track?" "Stop that train," shouted Joe, in reply. "There's an obstruction on the track just beyond the trestle." "What for lookin' abstraction is it?" inquired the track-walker, incredulously. "A big rock," replied Joe; and seeing at once that he had a stupid, and no doubt an obstinate, man to deal with, he did not neglect to make preparations to stop the train himself. He promptly got me out of the way and detached the lamp; and when he bent over so that the light fell upon his face, I started in spite of myself. He was as white as a sheet. "Aw! G'long wid ye now," said the track-walker. "Don't I be goin' down beyant there onct or twicst bechune trains iv'ry blessed day of me loife for three years an' better? An' don't I know--" "I don't care what you have done during the last three years, or what you know," interrupted Joe, as he ran back to the track and signaled "down brakes" with his lamp. "There's a rock on the track--What are you trying to do, you loon?" exclaimed Joe, hotly, as the man made an effort to push him away and take his lamp from him. "Let me alone or I will report you. There'll be a wreck here in a minute more, and you will lose your place on the road." Although the man didn't like the idea of allowing an outsider to interfere with his business, Joe's words had just the effect upon him that the boy intended they should have, and after a little hesitation he began signaling with his own light. Between them they succeeded in attracting the attention of the engineer, who called for brakes, and stopped his train within a few feet of the place where Joe and the track-walker stood. "What's the trouble?" he asked from his cab window; and while Joe was explaining, the conductor came up and listened. The latter looked first at my master and then at me, and presently said: "You didn't ride across the trestle, of course." "Of course I did," replied Joe, "I couldn't have got across any other way. I would have been afraid to walk that narrow plank in the dark. How high is it above the water?" "Sixty feet in some places, and the trestle is just half a mile long," answered the conductor. "Here, boys, put that wheel into the baggage car. Young man, you come with me, and I will take you to Dorchester." "That's where we want to go," said Joe, surprised to learn that he and his friends had been riding on the back track ever since they struck the railroad. In obedience to the conductor's order I was hoisted into the baggage car, placed against a pile of trunks so that I could see through the wide-open door and the engineer pulled slowly ahead. I had little idea how far we had run after leaving the trestle, but we were fully five minutes in getting back to it, and much longer in crossing it. There seemed to be no bottom to the gulf it spanned. It was so deep that I could see nothing but the tops of the trees that grew in it. About the time we got to the other end of it the baggage-master, who had been leaning half-way out the opposite door, drew in his head long enough to remark to some one whom I took to be his assistant: "There's a chap out there calling for brakes the best he knows how," and I straightway made up my mind that it must be Roy Sheldon. "This would be a bad place for an accident with such a trainful of passengers as we've got. There's the rock," he added, a moment later, "and it's as big as this car." It wasn't quite as large as that, nor do I suppose it was even half as large as Rube Royall's cabin; but it was big and heavy enough to tax the strength of all the men who could get around it, including the engineer, fireman, conductor, all the brakemen, some of the passengers and two wheelmen. With the aid of levers and much lifting and pushing they got it started at last, and it went down into the gulf with a terrific crash. I heard the engineer say, as he climbed back into his cab, that if he had struck that rock going as fast as he usually did at that place, he would have demolished his train so completely that it would have taken a microscope to find the wreck. "All clear," shouted the conductor. "All aboard. Pass along that other wheel." "One moment, please. There's another man in our party who went down that way because we didn't know where to look for the first train," said Joe, waving his hand in the direction in which Arthur Hastings had disappeared. "He'll be back directly, and as we don't care to be separated, perhaps you had better leave us here. We're just as much obliged to you, however." "Has the other man got a lamp? All right, Jake," said the conductor, addressing the engineer, "keep a lookout for another wheelman a mile or so down the road. That'll be all right. Pile in." Joe and Roy went into one of the passenger cars, while the latter's wheel was placed at my side against the trunks. The first words he uttered were: "It's just dreadful to think of, isn't it?" "Not so much so as it might be," said I. "If I had broken Joe Wayring's head for him while he was driving me at top speed across that trestle, then you might have had something to talk about." "We've enough as it is. I know it might have been worse, and some unknown villains meant it should be. Roy Sheldon showed the marks to the engineer as soon as he got out of his cab." "What marks?" "Why, the marks on the rock. The engineer called the conductor's attention to them, and together they made it up not to say a word about it in the hearing of the passengers for fear of frightening them." "What in the world did the passengers have to be frightened about so long as Joe and I stopped the train and averted the disaster? They ought to be tickled." "Well, they wouldn't be if they knew how that rock came to be on the track. You probably did not see the conductor when he threw some pieces of round wood over the brink into the ravine, but I did, and I know that they were the rollers that were used to bring that bowlder into place after it had been tumbled down from the bluff. There's train-wreckers in this country, I tell you." Roy's bike was so excited over what might have happened if we had found that railroad half an hour later, that he could not tell a straight story; but this is what I managed to draw from him after much patient and ingenious questioning: When Joe and I disappeared in one direction and Arthur Hastings and his wheel sped swiftly away in the other, Roy Sheldon seated himself upon the rock with his lamp in his hand, and whistled softly, keeping time with his heels, for a full minute; then he grew tired of doing nothing, jumped off the rock and made a circuit of it, looking closely at it on all sides. It had cut a deep gash in the bluff as it came down, but Roy thought the ditch ought to have stopped it, because it was lower than the track. Somehow Roy could not bring himself to believe that it had come down with speed enough to run across a three foot ditch, up a hill that was eighteen inches high and six feet long, and stop so squarely in the middle of the track. "There's something rather queer about it," soliloquized the young wheelman, as he moved around the obstruction. "Now, then, what's that?" Just then something attracted his attention, and he bent over to examine it. It was the print of a foot in the soft earth at the end of one of the sleepers. Roy placed his own foot within it, and found, to his consternation, that it was at least a third larger than his shoe. Then he made another impression beside it, and the difference in size satisfied him beyond all doubt that he had not made that suspicious track himself. There were hobnails in the track, and that proved that none of Roy's party could have stepped in that particular spot, for there were no nails of that sort in their foot-gear. "This rock was put here for a purpose," said Roy; and when the thought passed through his mind the cold chills crept all over him. "There must have been a good many of them in the gang, for half a dozen men couldn't roll so heavy a weight out of the ditch unless they had something to work with. What's this and this, and those pieces of timber over there?" The longer the boy continued his investigations, the more he found to confirm the alarming suspicions that had arisen in his mind. The objects that now attracted his notice were several pieces of round wood, with the bark scratched and torn from them, and as many sticks of timber that were likewise covered with wounds and abrasions. There were other large footprints too in abundance--in fact the ground about looked as though a large party of men had been at work there for a long time--and presently the boy discovered marks upon the bowlder itself which might have been made with a spade or crowbar. "Were we all blind that we didn't notice these things when we first came here?" said Roy to himself. "Probably we were so highly excited that we couldn't notice any thing except the rock. The fiends who put this thing on the track with the intention of wrecking the train ought to be hanged without judge or jury. I am glad I didn't know what I know now, for I wouldn't have had the courage to stay here alone." Just then the thought flashed through Roy's mind that perhaps the would-be train-wreckers were concealed somewhere in the vicinity waiting for the time when they could descend into the gulf and complete their work, and that their evil eyes might at that very moment be fastened upon him, while they were discussing plans for getting him out of their way. If Joe and Arthur had known all this, would they have been so ready to dash off into the darkness to warn the unsuspecting engineer of his peril? How easily one of those concealed villains could have tumbled both his friends out of their saddles with a shot from a revolver! And what had prevented them, when the boys first started away, from throwing from the top of the bluff an obstruction upon the track that would have sent both the wheelmen to the ground? No doubt it was because Roy and his friends acted with so much promptness that they did not have time to think of it; but hadn't they had plenty of time since then to recover from their surprise and plan vengeance? This fear almost unnerved Roy. He took one step toward his wheel, but the thought that passed through his mind was driven out as quickly as it came. Come what might, he would not desert his post. He would stay there and warn the train, if one of his companions did not succeed in doing it, and in the mean time if those scoundrels wanted a fight, they could have it. Roy's first care was to put his lamp behind the rock out of sight, and his second to pull his bicycle case off his shoulder and take out the rifle it contained. He had done considerable shooting with it since he had been on the road, although it had not yet brought him a young squirrel for his dinner. As often as he and his companions halted for a rest their little weapons were brought out, and Roy had learned by actual test that the one he owned could be depended on to shoot "right where it was held." "Now I am ready for them," said Roy, taking his stand behind the rock outside the circle of light that came from the lamp. "If they advance along the road they had better make sure work of me at the start, for if they don't, some of them will get hurt." If the train-wreckers were hidden where they could see him (and it was reasonable to suppose they were), they must have taken note of Roy's movements, and perhaps they saw that he had a weapon of some sort in his hands and was ready to defend himself. Be that as it may, they did not molest him, and the boy stuck to his post until the glare of the locomotive headlight fell upon him. The train was moving slowly, and that was proof enough that Joe Wayring had warned it; but to make sure of it, Roy caught up his lamp and "called for brakes the best he knew how." The engineer was the first man to speak to him, and when Roy called his attention to the marks on the rock, the big footprints on the ground and the timbers that were scattered about, the brave fellow turned so white that it showed through the black on his face. He in turn told the conductor, and the latter at once threw the timbers into the ditch, and pitched the pieces of round wood into the gulf. "Don't lisp a word of it," he said, earnestly. "We've got a heavy, packed train, and the folks would be scared to death. Young fellow," he added, turning to give Joe Wayring a hearty slap on the shoulder, "you have been the means of preventing a slaughter. I'll bet there isn't another wheelman in the State who can ride over that trestle." "Haw, haw!" laughed Joe. "I guess you haven't seen many wheelmen, have you?" "Or who would have the courage to attempt it in daylight, let alone a dark night like this," continued the conductor. "Why, man alive, it's a very narrow plank that was put there for the convenience of the track-walker, and the trestle is sixty feet high and half a mile long." "I am glad I didn't know that when I was going over it," was all Joe had to say in reply. This is what I meant when I said a while ago that little things often bring about great events. I now know that my master was frightened out of a year's growth when he found himself on that trestle, but he had confidence and nerve enough to go ahead without attempting to dismount. It was that short interview with the strange wheelman that did it, and made Joe Wayring the steady rider he was that night. He knew as well as anybody that he "wobbled too much," but he supposed that was something every novice did, and that the fault would correct itself without any care or trouble on his part. But as soon as his attention was called to it he promptly set about "mending his style," and this was the result. He was glad of it now. It was the only thing that put it in his power to save the train, for on the day he encountered that strange wheelman he could not have ridden fifty feet on an eight-inch plank at full speed without falling off. By this time all the trainmen had come forward, accompanied by some of the wakeful passengers who wanted to inquire into the cause of this second stoppage, and by their united efforts the rock was tumbled harmlessly over the brink of the gulf and the engineer pulled out for Dorchester, keeping watch along the way for Arthur Hastings. He found him about two miles farther on, but the boy was not signaling, because the appearance of the train was proof enough that Joe had met and warned it. Arthur was surprised to see it come to a stop at the place where he got off the track, and to hear the engineer shout at him to chuck his bike into the baggage car and get aboard, for he was half an hour behind already. But he lost not a moment in thinking about it after he saw Joe and Roy beckoning to him from the platform of one of the passenger cars, and the train once more started on its way, this time moving at a rate of speed that gave me a faint idea of the crash that would have followed and the fearful loss of life that would have taken place if it had come in contact with that bowlder. This is the substance of the story Roy's wheel told me during the run to Dorchester, and the one to which Joe and Arthur listened while perched upon the wood-box in one of the crowded cars. The conductor could not give them a seat, for every one was filled with weary travelers who had slumbered serenely through it all, and who when they awoke at intervals, and looked with sleepy eyes toward the three dusty, white-faced boys behind the stove-pipe, never dreamed that one of them, a short half-hour before, held all their lives in his hand. The conductor knew it and could hardly find words with which to express his gratitude, although he tried hard enough. The young wheelmen conversed in whispers and looked frightened, as indeed they were; and Joe Wayring hoped from the bottom of his heart that no such responsibility would ever devolve upon him again. "I don't know what you fellows want to go to Dorchester for," said the conductor, who came into their car as soon as the train was fairly under way. "The place has a big name, but there are only three houses in it. There's no hotel at which you can stop. There is a boarding-house, but I tell you plainly that it will be of no use to go there, for old man Kane won't let you in. He says he can eat anybody who comes along, but he can't and won't sleep 'em." "That's queer," said Joe. "The author of our road-book has been through here, and says he got the best kind of treatment at Kane's boarding-house." "Oh, the old fellow sets a good table, and can be civil and obliging enough when he feels like it; but he won't get up after he has gone to bed. It's against his principles." "Why do you stop at such an out-of-the-way place?" "Because there's a horse railroad there that connects with a little town a few miles back in the country, and there are some people aboard who want to get off. The depot is always kept locked at night, and I am afraid you will have to bunk on the platform unless you will go on with me. Will you? I'll bring you back." The boys thanked him, but said they didn't think that was the best thing they could do. Their route ahead was laid out, and they wanted to stick as closely to it as they could. They were used to camping out, had warm blankets in their bundles, and would just as soon sleep on the platform as in a bed, provided old man Kane could be prevailed upon to give them a good breakfast in the morning. "But there's one thing about it," said Joe. "Every wheelman in the State ought to be warned that if he intends to travel this route, he had better time his runs so as to pass through this contemptible little Dorchester in daylight, unless he is prepared to camp out." Arthur Hastings thought it would be a good plan for one of them to state the facts of the case to the man who wrote the guide-book, so that he could have the warning put in subsequent editions. CHAPTER XIII. GOING INTO A HOT PLACE. "Where have you started for, anyway?" inquired the conductor, after a little pause. Joe replied that they had set out from Mount Airy to run across the State, and that when they reached the farther end of their route they would be about three hundred miles from home. "I suppose your object is to have fun and see the country, isn't it?" said the conductor. "Now of course I don't know anything about wheeling, but I should say that you could not have selected a worse route. You'll see the wildest bit of country there is, but how much fun you'll have I don't know. After you leave Dorchester you'll get into the mountains, and then your road will be all up-hill." "But the ascent is so gradual that we can easily accomplish it," said Roy. "Our road-book tells us it is so very gradual that we will hardly know we are going up. We understand that there is plenty of sport in the way of hunting and trout fishing in the neighborhood of Glen's Falls, and we intend to take our first rest there, if we can find any one who is willing to board us for a few days." "And if we can't do that, we shall camp out," added Joe. "We came prepared to do it." "I don't know much about hunting and fishing either," said the conductor. "All I do know is railroading; but some of my friends used to spend a month or so about the Glen every year, and always came back with the report that they had had the best kind of a time. But I notice they don't go there any more." "What's the reason they don't?" "Doesn't your guide-book warn you that there are some fellows up that way you had better keep clear of?" asked the conductor in reply. "It doesn't hint at such a thing." "It ought to. How long since it was written?" "Two years; but it has been revised since then." "Couldn't it be possible that no change was made in this particular route--I mean the one you are now taking?" inquired the official. "A good many things have happened at the Glen during the last two years. To begin with, the town had over a thousand inhabitants, and now it has hardly a quarter as many. Take 'em as a class, they're a rough set up there. They are lazy and shiftless, hate work as bad as so many tramps, and would be called tramps if it were not for the fact that they have permanent abodes most of the year. The rest of the time they are in the woods shooting game in violation of the law." "Are there no officers in the vicinity?" asked Arthur. "Oh, there are officers enough, but they are afraid to do anything toward bringing the law-breakers to justice. You see the latter are in the majority. They steal timber as often as they feel like it, go through every logging camp they find unguarded, and if you lodge a complaint against one of them, the whole band will turn in to clear him by false swearing, and then they will take satisfaction out of you by burning your mill, barn or house, and by shooting or poisoning your cattle. They're a fine lot, I assure you, and I shouldn't think you would like to go among them." "What a splendid place that would be for Matt Coyle if he were on deck now!" exclaimed Roy. "Why didn't he hunt up that band--did you say there was a band of them?" "Yes; and I have heard it is regularly organized, and that when one of them has to stand trial or give bonds to keep the peace with those he has threatened, he gets help from all over the county." "Why didn't Matt hunt up that band and live among them instead of going to such a place as Indian Lake?" said Roy. "Perhaps he wouldn't have got any independent guiding in that part of the State," suggested Joe. "There are, or used to be, plenty of guides up there," said the conductor, "but I don't suppose they get much to do now. A man who goes into the woods for fun doesn't pick guides from among a lot of fellows who will rob him the first chance they get. Of course there are some nice people about the Glen, and they will be glad to take you in if the Buster band will let them do it." "What has the Buster band to say about it?" demanded Joe. "Who are they, and where did they get that name?" added Roy. "They are the ones I have been telling you about--the lawless people in the Glen's Falls neighborhood," replied the conductor. "They 'bust up' property when things don't go to suit them, and that's the reason they call themselves the Buster band." "But what's the reason they will not allow any of the nice folks in town to board us if they want to?" asked Arthur. "Of course I am not sure that they will object to any arrangements you may be able to make with the family whose name I shall presently give you, but I think they will," answered the conductor. "You see, Dave Daily, the leader of the band, was indicted for arson, and there's a warrant out for him now. He and a companion were arrested for stealing timber; but they got out of jail somehow (every one says they must have had help from the outside in order to do it), and that night the man who complained of them lost everything he had in the world. Everything that would burn went up in smoke, and his stock was either poisoned or shot. After that Daily and his friend took to the woods, and Daily is there yet, or was the last I heard of him; but the friend was run down by a Middleport officer who went up there for that purpose." "That was all right," said Joe, when the conductor paused. "I wish he had caught Daily also." "So do I; but it seems he didn't. What I was going to say is this: That officer went up to Glen's Falls on his wheel." "Ah! That explains it, and the matter is perfectly clear to me now," said Arthur. "You think that Daily or his friends will think we are officers too, and that they will tell this man to whom you are going to direct us--what did you say his name is?" "I didn't say," answered the conductor, with a laugh. "But his name is Holmes, and he lives on the road you will have to take to reach the town. I don't know him personally, but my friends who have been there say he keeps the best house, and that he is the best guide for that neck of the woods. Yes; that is what I was thinking of. Some of the band will be sure to see you if you stop there, and they may--mind I don't say they will, but they may--send him word to get rid of you in short order. He'll have to do it, for the board you would be likely to pay him wouldn't recompense him for the loss of his cow, horse, or barn." "Of course it wouldn't," replied Joe. "We'll state the case to him as plainly as we know how, if we can find him, and if we learn that your suspicions are well-grounded, we'll not ask him to shelter us." "Well, if this isn't a pretty state of affairs I wouldn't say so," exclaimed Arthur, who was very much disgusted. "They must be a brave lot up there to let a few lawless people keep them so completely under their thumbs." "But don't you know that they are in the minority?" demanded Joe. "Yes; and a big one, too," added the conductor. "If the members of that Buster band don't work, how do they live?" inquired Roy. "They don't live; they just stay. They all own a little land, and work it enough to raise a few vegetables, like turnips and potatoes, and a little corn. Their meat they get out of the woods. They will steal timber, and then walk up and sell it to the man to whom it belongs, and who is generally the owner of a saw-mill he can't afford to have burned down. They sell their pigs, and by various other shifts make out to keep themselves in tobacco and clothes. And between you and me," added the conductor, sinking his voice to a whisper, "I believe they had something to do with the rock you young gentlemen found on the track." "Is _that_ the sort of folks they are?" exclaimed Joe. "Of course I can't prove anything against them, but I bet you that when I make my report, there'll be a detective sent up there to look into the matter. I understand that there are spies in that band now, working in the interests of law and order, and if the detective can only strike one of them, he may learn something. There's Dorchester," he continued, as a long whistle from the engine awoke the echoes of the woods, "and I must say good-by. I don't want you to forget that you have made a friend of every man on the road by--" "We should think you a mighty queer set if we hadn't," Joe interposed. "It's all right. Any decent fellows in the world would do the same, of course, but it happened to come in our way. We are greatly obliged for the information and warning you have given us." "You will change your route then?" replied the conductor, and the boys thought he looked relieved when he said it. "I was sure you would, when you knew what sort of folks they are in that section of the country. Good-by and good luck to you." When the young wheelmen stepped upon the platform they shook hands with all the trainmen, who wished them a pleasant trip and no end of fun while it lasted, and then leaned their wheels under the eaves of the little building that served as warehouse, operator's office and waiting-room, and looked about them. The light that shone from the conductor's lantern, and from the windows of the horse-car standing upon the branch track, gave them a clear view of their surroundings, which were so cheerless that the boys wondered how any road-book maker could advise wheelmen to come that way, unless he wanted to have them fooled as he had been fooled himself. At least that was the way Arthur Hastings expressed it. "He probably came through here in the day-time, when old man Kane had a good dinner ready for him, and everything looked different," said Joe. "He wouldn't have had so much to say in favor of Dorchester's boarding-house if he had passed through in the night and been shut out of doors." "Are we going to let what the conductor said about that Buster band induce us to change our route?" inquired Roy, who, as soon as the train pulled out and the horse-car disappeared down the branch track, began untying his bundle and taking out his blankets as if it were a settled thing that he and his companions were to camp right where they stood. "That's the question now before the house." "I stand ready to yield to the majority, but for myself I say 'No,'" answered Joe. "Hear, hear!" cried Arthur. "But it does look dark now that the lights have gone, don't it? To tell the truth, I wish that detective had not gone up there on his wheel. Somehow it brings to my mind all the stories I have read about the sudden and mysterious disappearance of men who have been foolish enough to wear blue blouses through the regions where the moonshiners hang out. Those interesting people think that every one who dresses in blue must be a revenue officer, and make it a point to shoot him from the bushes without troubling him with any questions." "That's a cheerful way to talk to homeless boys who have nearly sixty miles of mountain travel before them," said Joe, driving his knife into the side of the building and hanging his lighted lamp upon it. "That makes things look a little pleasanter, doesn't it? I don't know how it is with you, but I am tired and sleepy, and I'm going to lie down." After fastening their wheels together with a couple of chains and padlocks, so that if any light-footed prowler happened along and carried one of them off he would have to take all, the boys spread their blankets upon the platform, and went to sleep. Just before he closed his eyes Arthur said he knew he would dream of that rock and a train tumbling over into the gulf, but he slept too soundly to dream about anything until he was aroused by the stentorian voice of old man Kane, the man who would eat anybody who came that way but wouldn't sleep him. As soon as he opened his doors he saw the wheels resting against the station-house, and came over to ask the boys if they didn't think it about time to get up to breakfast. "All right," replied Arthur. "We'll be there directly. It was that jolly, good-natured face of his that deceived the author of our road-book, and made him think Kane was a bully landlord," he added, as the man turned away to hurry up the breakfast. "If we had a piece of bread as big as a walnut I'd see him happy before I would show my face inside the house he keeps locked against belated wheelmen. No one will ever come this route by my advice." But after he had bathed his hands and face in the cold water that came from the spring behind the house, drank two big cups of coffee, and eaten two boys' share of the excellent breakfast that was placed before him, Arthur did not feel quite so much disposed to growl at old man Kane. He voted him a number one caterer, and that was more than could be said of every boarding-house keeper. While they were at the table they heard a train stop at the station-house, and after what seemed a long delay, they saw the horse-car pass the window with a lot of passengers aboard; but they thought nothing of it until they went into the office, which was also the sitting and loafing room, and stepped up to the desk to pay their bill. "Put that back! Put that money back," exclaimed the landlord, almost fiercely. "Bless my heart! I've a good notion to come out from behind the desk and shake the last one of you boys, and I can do it too, old as I am. I've just heard about it. Why didn't you wake me up last night, instead of going to bed there on the platform?" Roy tried to explain that they did not want to disturb him after he had gone to bed (he didn't say why), and that their blankets afforded them as soft a bed as they cared for, but the old man did so much talking himself that Roy finally gave it up. He listened while the landlord told that the men on the up-train, as well as the passengers they had seen go by the dining-room window, had brought a full report of last night's doings, and he wanted to give them a breakfast to pay them for it, because he would have felt bad if that train had run into the rock and been smashed up. "I always did look upon wheelmen as a nuisance," said he, with refreshing candor. "They eat you out of house and home, and the fifty cents you charge 'em for it don't begin to pay for the damage they do; but now I know that they ain't a nuisance. I've seen that trestle, and I say that the boy who can ride over it in the dark has got the right kind of pluck to make a man out of him some of these days. No, sir, I won't tax you a cent for that breakfast; but I want to see the chap that went over that plank. Which one was it?" "It's nothing to make a fuss about," answered Joe, who knew that if he did not speak Roy and Arthur would. He thought the man would have something complimentary to say to him; but instead of that he pushed the register toward him with the request that Joe would draw a line under his name so that he (Kane) would know it the next time he saw it. "Do you know what I am going to do?" said he, when the boy handed back the pen. "I'm going to show that name to every wheelman who comes along, and double-dare him to go up to the trestle and ride over that plank. If he'll do it, and prove that he does it, I'll give him all he can eat as long as he has a mind to stay." It was right on the point of Roy Sheldon's tongue to inquire: "And will you expect him to sleep on the platform of nights?" But instead of that he said: "Then you will be bankrupt in less than six months if many wheelmen come this way." Old man Kane declared that he didn't believe a word of it, and the boys went out on the porch and sat down to read over the day's route, and fix it firmly in their minds, so that they would not be obliged to refer constantly to the guide-book. It was a short one, only twenty-six miles, but it was all they would want to do in one day, because it was the worst part of the sixty-mile mountain road that lay before them. The next day's run would take them to Glen's Falls, which, so the book said, was just the place for a brain-weary wheelman to stop and take a few days' rest. But in order to reap the full benefit of it, he ought to go at once, before telegraph communication was opened with the rest of the world, as it certainly would be next year. "As the book was written two years ago that means last year," said Joe. "Unless that conductor was greatly mistaken, the town is as much secluded now as it was then." "More so, and further away from telegraphic communication with the rest of the world," said Roy, "because that Buster band has driven every one away from there. Who knows but it will drive us away too? Let's get there and see." Having taken leave of old man Kane and thanked him for the good breakfast he had given them, the boys mounted and rode away. Joe Wayring was right when he said that Dorchester probably looked more cheerful in broad daylight than it did in the dark. Although there were but few people stirring, and they were mostly section hands, and there was little business done except at train time, it was a pleasant spot, and one that many a sweltering city boy would be glad to get away to during his summer vacation. The guide-book said there was fine fishing in the neighboring ponds, and the boys knew that squirrels were abundant, for they heard them barking on all sides as they crossed the railroad and wheeled away among the trees on the other side. This proved to be the hardest day's run so far, but the boys "took it easy," stopped beside every babbling brook they found, and long before the hands on their watches told them it was twelve o'clock, every crumb of the generous lunch that old man Kane put up for them had disappeared. The road was steeper than they expected to find it, the log bridges over the streams were not in the best of repair, and there were so many stones on the hill that any attempt at coasting would have been perilous. The house at which they intended to stop for the night, provided the owner did not object to the company of strangers, looked very cool and inviting when they came within sight of it. It was nestled among the trees at the farther end of a long bridge, there was a neat mill beside it, and the rumble of the machinery was just dying away as the boys drew up in front of the open door. "Hallo!" said a voice from the interior, removing all doubts from their minds at once. "How many of you fellows are there, anyway? Went down to New London t'other day and saw as many as seventy-five or thirty of you, all going somewhere, but you're the first to come our way this season. Alight and hitch." "Thank you; but our horses stand without hitching," replied Arthur. "Will it be convenient for you to keep us to-night?" The dusty miller, following his voice to the door, said it would not only be quite convenient, but he would be glad to do it, for he was lonely up there in the hills, and he and his family were always pleased to see new faces. The first wheelman who ever came that way stopped with him for a week, and promised to tell any who came after him to do the same. The miller was surprised when Arthur produced the road-book, showed him his name, and told him that they had had him and his house in mind ever since they left Mount Airy. "And do you mean to say that you have come that distance with nothing but a book to guide you?" he exclaimed. "Now that is the neatest kind of a trick, ain't it? Well, come in and we'll get some of the dust off." That night after supper, while they were sitting on the porch, the boys told Mr. Hudson (that was the miller's name) that they were going on to Glen's Falls with the intention of taking a few days' rest there, and to their surprise and relief he did not say a word to turn them from their purpose, as they were sure he would have done if the people in that neighborhood had been the desperate lot that the conductor represented them to be. This led Joe to believe that the conductor had been misinformed, and I heard him say as much to his chums when the miller went into the house after his pipe. "And don't you believe in the existence of the Buster band either?" I heard Roy ask him. "Oh, there may be lawless men about Glen's Falls, and where in the world will you go amiss of them?" answered Joe. "But I don't, and never have, put any faith in that story about an organized band of outlaws who terrorize the country, and roam around destroying buildings and stock when things do not go to please them. Why, just think of the absurdity of it! How long would it be before the whole power of the State would be put forth to bring them to justice?" "I never placed much faith in the tales I have heard and read of men being shanghaied and taken to sea against their will," said Roy, with a wink at Arthur; "but I do now." "I don't blame you," answered Arthur, "and we may be quite as willing to swallow all we have heard about that Buster band before we are a week older. I don't think that conductor meant to fool us, but he certainly did exaggerate things and make mountains out of mole-hills." I had hoped so all along, and now I began to be sure of it. You can imagine, then, how astounded and frightened I was when I heard the miller say to his wife, after Joe and his friends had gone up-stairs to bed: "I really wish those boys would keep away from Glen's Falls, for I am afraid they will get into trouble if they do not. I suppose I ought to tell them about the Buster band, who make targets of the officers of the law, and destroy the houses of those who complain of them, but, Mollie, I am afraid to do it. Every dollar I have in the world is invested right here beside this little stream of water, and if I tried to put the boys on their guard, and they should go up to the Falls and repeat what I said to them, how long do you think my buildings would stand? They're strangers to me, and I don't know how far to trust them." "And don't you remember that the detective who arrested that friend of Dave Daily's came up here on a wheel?" said Mrs. Hudson. "And haven't the band said that every man who comes into the country on a wheel can make up his mind to go out of it on foot? I think myself that your safest plan is to keep still. If you knew the boys could be depended on, the case would be different. I'm almost sorry you agreed to keep them all night." "So am I," said the miller. "I don't believe I shall ever do the like again." I shivered all over as I leaned against the side of the house and listened to this conversation. If my master had heard it, I am sure he would have turned back and given Glen's Falls a wide berth. CHAPTER XIV. ARTHUR'S READY RIFLE. Knowing nothing of the fears that disturbed the minds of the miller and his wife Joe and his friends slept soundly, and after an early breakfast resumed their journey with light hearts; but there was something in Mr. Hudson's manner, more than in his words, when he bade them good-by that made the boys wonder if he had anything on his mind that he was keeping from them. "You've had the best kind of luck so far and I hope it may continue; but I don't know," said he, kicking a pebble out of the path. "Looks to me as though wheeling through a country that you are not acquainted with, and going among people you don't know anything about, is mighty risky business. If I was your folks, I'd be sort o' uneasy till I saw you safe back." "I don't know whether we've had the best kind of luck so far or not," said Arthur, as the three lifted their caps to the miller's wife and wheeled away. "What would he say if he knew about Roy's long swim in New London harbor?" "Or about Joe's wild ride over that trestle?" chimed in Roy. "Of course he had good luck in getting over without a broken head, but it was bad luck that brought him into the scrape." "Mr. Hudson probably had reference to the dangers of wheeling, and not to anything else," replied Joe. "I wouldn't give a cent to go on a trip of this kind if we did not pass through a strange country and see new faces at every mile of the way. Now for a coast; the first we have had since we struck this lovely road. Look out for heads everybody." "And for the corduroy bridge at the bottom of the hill," added Arthur, quoting from the guide-book. The latter faithfully warned them of all the bad places that were to be found in the road when its author passed that way two years before, but it was silent on the subject of some things that were more to be feared than sticks, stones, and corduroy bridges. They encountered two of them about three o'clock that afternoon, when they thought they ought to be within a mile or two of Glen's Falls. Joe Wayring, who was leading the way, was the first to discover them. They were vagabond dogs which came slowly out of the thick bushes on one side of the road, dragging after them something that proved to be the carcass of a freshly slaughtered sheep. Now if there was anything in the world that Joe was afraid of it was an ugly dog; and that these brutes were ugly as well as bold (if they hadn't been bold they would not have killed that sheep in broad daylight) was quickly made apparent. The minute Joe came within sight of them he sounded his bell, whereupon the dogs dropped their prey and raised their heads; but instead of taking themselves off, as my master thought they would, they stood their ground, snarling and showing their white, gleaming fangs as a welcome to the advancing wheelman. "By gracious! They want a fight!" exclaimed Joe. "All right. They can have it," replied Roy. "Sheep-killing dogs have no rights that any one is bound to respect, and these villains have been caught in the act." "Down with them," cried Arthur, whipping his ready rifle from its case before his wheel fairly came to a standstill. "We've more right to the road than they have, and if they won't let us go by--" "Don't do anything hasty," interrupted Joe. "Think of the reputation of the people to whom these brutes undoubtedly belong, and bear in mind that we've got to go through Glen's Falls or turn back." "We haven't come almost fifty miles over the worst road in the United States to be turned back now," answered Roy. "Did anybody ever see uglier looking things, I wonder?" he added, as the two yellow, stump-tailed dogs, with their dripping lips raised, and their short ears laid back close to their heads, crouched upon the body of the sheep like panthers preparing for a spring. "Let's see what effect a stone will have upon their courage." By this time the young wheelmen had dismounted; they had to, for the savage beasts had possession of the road. There was room enough on one side to run by them, and Joe and his friends would have made the attempt if they had had any reason to suppose that the dogs would remain close to the sheep while they were doing it; but that would be taking too much risk. If the dogs jumped at them while they were going by, no matter whether they succeeded in laying hold of one of their number or not, they would be pretty certain to throw somebody from his saddle, and then there would be trouble. The unfortunate sheep's throat looked as though it had been cut with a knife, and that proved that their long teeth were sharp. Joe and Arthur were not in favor of beginning a fight with the dogs, hoping that if they were left alone they would drag the sheep across the road and into the woods on the other side; but before they could say or do anything to prevent it, Roy Sheldon made one of his sure, left-hand shots; a heavy stone took one of the canine vagabonds plumb in the mouth and tumbled him over backward. "Whoop-pee! That was a bully shot, Jakey," yelled Roy, recalling some of the incidents of the first battle he and his chums had with Matt Coyle and his family. "Throw another, Jakey. Great Scott! They're coming for us." That was plain enough to boys who could see as well as Joe and Arthur could. The stone certainly had an effect upon them, for they no longer stood on the defensive. They charged at once, the stricken brute leading the way, and his companion keeping close at his heels. I tell you the sight they presented was enough to frighten anybody, unless his nerves were made of steel, as mine were, but we did not run. I couldn't without help, and Joe and his chums wouldn't. In less time than it takes to tell it one of the charging brutes was knocked flat by a second stone from Roy's unerring hand, and the other fell with a bullet in his brain, shot fairly in the eye by Arthur Hastings's pocket rifle. But the death of his companion and the crack of the cartridge did not take the fight out of the surviving dog. Almost stunned as he was, he sprang up again in an instant, only to be floored by Joe Wayring. A second later Arthur's little rifle spoke again, and this time the dog did not get up. He was as dead as the sheep he had helped pull out of the bushes. [Illustration: The Death of Matt Coyle's Dogs.] "This is rather ahead of my time," said Joe, who was the first to speak. "I never dreamed that domestic dogs could be so savage. Why, a couple of wild-cats or panthers couldn't have made a worse fight, nor frightened me more," he added, lifting his cap and wiping the big drops of perspiration from his forehead. "I hope this is the last of it, but I'm afraid it isn't." Before Joe's friends had time to ask him what he meant, or to recover from the nervousness into which they had been thrown by the sudden onset of the sheep-killers, they heard a great crashing in the bushes, which were so thick on both sides of the road that one could not see any object in them at the distance of ten feet, and a heavy voice called out: "So you've come again, have you? Three on you this time 'stead of one. All right. I'll be there directly. I'm coming jest as fast as the bresh'll let me." "There comes the owner of these dogs," said Joe. "Now we are in for it sure." "Who cares?" replied Roy. "If he thinks we are going to stand still and let his ferocious dogs eat us up, he don't know us; that's all." Meanwhile the noise in the bushes grew louder, and now a tall, heavily built man forced his way out and stepped into the middle of the road. "Come again, have you?" was the way in which he greeted the boys. "And brung two fellers with you to help. Wal, you'll need 'em all. Take me, if you want to. See!" he went on rapidly, laying his rifle upon the ground and standing erect with his arms spread out as if to show that he had no other weapon about him. "I'll put my shooting-iron outen my hands and ask you again to take me if you have come here for that purpose. I double-dare you to lay a finger on me. Come now!" A blind man could have told by the tones of his voice that the new-comer was "as full of mad as he could hold"; so very angry in fact, that he scarcely took two looks at the boys to whom he was talking until after he had laid down his rifle and spread out his arms. When he saw that he was confronting a trio of boys, and not bearded men, he dropped his hands and gave utterance to two emphatic words; but as they were swear-words I don't repeat them. "Who did you think we were?" inquired Joe, who saw at once that the broad-shouldered backwoodsman had make a mistake. "I took you for jest what I thought you was--the detective that come up here on one of them two-wheeled wagons and run my pardner to earth like a woodchuck in his hole," said the man, nodding at the bicycles. "But you ain't, be you?" "Of course we are not officers," answered Roy. "We are tourist-wheelmen traveling for pleasure." "Oh," said the man, in a rather doubtful tone, as if he did not quite understand what the boys were, after all. Then he turned his head over his shoulder and shouted at the woods: "It is all right, boys, and you can come along without shooting. You see," he went on, as another crashing in the bushes told Joe and his friends that there were more men coming, "I seen you from my place up there on the mounting when you crossed over the brook below, and I was kinder laying for you. Understand? These here fellers are pardners of mine," he continued, as two stalwart woodsmen presented themselves to view. "They was laying back there in the bresh where they had a fair squint at you; if you'd a put a finger on to me when I dropped my rifle and told you to come on, some of you would have been deader now than them dogs you plumped over. What did you do it with? I heared something pop like a gun-cap, and over them dogs went." Arthur Hastings handed over his rifle because he held it in plain sight, and did not think it would be prudent to do anything else. The man seemed to grow friendly as soon as he was satisfied that the boys were not detectives who had come to the mountains for the purpose of arresting him, and Arthur was afraid that if anything were done to excite his rage, he might become as savage as the dogs from whose fangs he and his chums had been saved by his good shooting. The man took the pocket rifle with many exclamations of wonder and amusement, and while he and his "pardners" were giving it a good looking-over, Arthur and his friends improved the opportunity to take an equally close survey of the mountaineers; but there was some apprehension mingled with their curiosity, for they knew, as well as they knew anything, that they were in the presence of some of the Buster band. The first one who showed himself was Dave Daily, the leader of the band, who had been in hiding for a year or so to escape arrest. "That's a mighty cute little trick of a gun," said the latter, when he handed back the pocket rifle. "But you wouldn't like to bet a dollar that she can beat my deer-killer at the distance of a hundred yards, would you? No, I don't reckon you would, because you would be certain sure to lose your dollar. Do you know who's talking to you?" he added, abruptly. Joe replied that they not only knew his name, but that they had heard something about him down at Dorchester; and then he wondered why the man did not say something about the dogs that were lying in plain sight. Did they belong to him, and was he going to raise a fuss with his friend Arthur for shooting them? If he did, there would be but one way out of the scrape, and that was to pay the man every cent he chose to demand for the worthless brutes. "I'll bet you didn't hear nothing good about us down Dorchester way," said Daily, for it was he. "But I'll tell you what is a fact: We're not the terrible chaps that some folks would try to make you think we are. So long as everybody minds their own business and lets us alone, so long do we mind our business and let other folks be. Set down a while," he added, growing communicative, "and I'll tell you jest how the fuss commenced in the first place." There was nothing for it but to comply with this request, for Daily did not look or speak like a man who would take "no" for an answer unless he felt like it. So the boys leaned their wheels against convenient trees, seated themselves by Daily's side under the shade of another, while his two friends stretched their heavy frames upon the leaves close by, and the leader went on with his story. "Us and our folks was raised right here in this neck of woods, we've always lived here, and we don't know no other country outside," said he. "We never had no fuss with nobody so long as we was let alone. We cultivated our little craps, shot our meat in the woods when we wanted it, ketched our trout in the brooks, sot lines through the ice for pickerel in winter, went to school when we wanted to, and were happy like the Injuns was before the white man come to this country and drove them out. First thing we knew, some fellers down in Washington, wherever that is, kicked up a war with somebody else, and sent word to our folks that they'd got to come and help fight it out. Well, they wouldn't do it, our folks wouldn't, because it wasn't their fight, they hadn't no hand in getting it up, they didn't care which one whipped, and so they said they'd stay to home. Then what does them big fellers in Washington do but send an officer of some sort up here to take down the names of all of us, except the little boys, so't they could be drafted into the army. Our folks told him he wasn't wanted here and that he'd better go home, but he wouldn't, and so they run him out and everybody like him who came here afterwards." "In short, you resisted the draft," said Joe. "You're right we did, and we'll do it again," said Daily, in savage tones. "Whenever we raise a fight amongst ourselves, we stick to it till one or t'other gets licked; but we don't take up outsiders' quarrels. Well, that was where the fuss commenced, and for as much as four years our folks had to keep hid in the mountings so't them drafting officers couldn't get a hold of 'em. When the war was over we thought we should have peace and be let alone like we was before; but we wasn't. Some smart Alecks, who had been elected to go to the Capital, and who had never been up here, passed a law--without once asking us, mind you--that deer shouldn't be killed at such and such times; that trout mustn't be ketched only jest when they said so; and that if we didn't give some heed to them laws, they would take us up and put us in jail. Well, they tried it, and how did they come out? Tell me that, will you?" "At the little end of the horn," said one of the "pardners," who had thus far kept silent. "You're right they did, Spence; at the little end of the horn," exclaimed Daily. "And that's the way everybody will come out who takes it upon himself to make laws for us. We're free Amerikin citizens and we mean to keep so. We don't ask no outsiders to make laws for us, because we can take care of ourselves. We kept right along jest as we had always been doing, shooting deer whenever we wanted the meat (violating the law they called it), and one night Zeb Harris and me was took outen our beds and slapped into the jail down at Machias. You see we didn't have no jail up here at Glen's Falls, because we never needed such a thing. We knew well enough who it was that complained of us, for our friends kept us posted; so I writ him a little letter telling him what Zeb and me allowed to do as soon as we got out. We did get out pretty quick, and somehow everything happened to him jest as we said it would. While I was in jail I writ to the papers about it, so't the folks outside could know how we had been treated and trod upon, and all my pieces was published jest as I writ 'em. Don't believe it, do you?" said Daily, thrusting his hand into an inside pocket and pulling out a greasy note-book. "I want you to understand that I can write as well as anybody, even if I haven't had much schooling, and when it comes to poetry, I don't give in to no living man on top of the broad earth. Look at that, and see if you can beat it with all your education." As Daily said this he placed in Roy Sheldon's hands a clipping from a newspaper, with the request that he would "read her out loud so't everybody could hear it." The boy found that it was going to be a task to read it at all, for the paper had been so often and so roughly handled that in some places the words were quite obliterated. The poem, if that was the right name for the chief law-breaker's effusion, was nearly a column in length, and it required no little effort on Roy's part to make out the first two verses of it. They ran as follows: "it was in the town of glens fals as you shal understand thair lived a crowd of young men thay was cald the buster band and thay was accused of menny a bad deed let them be gilty or not but thay hunted deer the year round and for the wardens made it hot thair was one young man among them the wardens all knew wel and by this felows rifl thair was menny a fine deer fel he hunted upon an old stream i would have you all to know and sed that that was one place the wardens dast not go" "What was the reason the wardens dared not go there?" inquired Arthur, when Roy handed back the paper declaring that the letters were so dim he could not make sense out of the rest of it. "What were they afraid of?" "Of me. I was up there," answered Daily, who seemed to think he had done something very brave when he concealed himself in the woods and sent word back to the settlement that he would fire upon the first officer who came along his trail to arrest him. "I tell you it wasn't healthy around where I was about that time for anybody but me and my friends. If you don't believe it, read that." With the words another choice bit of composition was thrust into Roy's hand. It proved to be a warning to one of the recently appointed wardens that the Buster band, having "commenced the fun" by burning the house of the man who had dared to enter complaint against Dave Daily and his friend Zeb Harris, would keep it up by visiting the home of the warden if he did not at once throw up his office and let unlawful deer-hunters alone. There was still a third clipping which proved of more interest to the boys than either of the others, for it related to the detective who had come to Glen's Falls on his wheel. It was addressed to the very man whose house they had intended to make their headquarters during their stay at the Falls. It ran thus: "Mr. Jon Homes:--if you keep that black whiskered felow with the nee britches about your house any longer you will have roast pig to and in short order we know he is a detektive be cause he has been talking with one of our boys who he thinks is a spy on us in the pay of what you call the law and order sosiation but thair ant no spies amongst our crowd i want you to understand git rid of him for if you dont you will be burnt out before a week goes by we have started the fun and we will keep it up we mean bisness git rid of him and your all rite if you dont down she comes by the time you git this we shal have taken some of your stock as proof that we mean bisiness, from a frind remember." By the time Roy Sheldon had finished reading this precious document he and his two friends were so angry that they could scarcely refrain from telling Dave Daily what they thought of so mean and cowardly a villain as these productions of his proved him to be. Joe Wayring showed very plainly that he had had quite enough of this nonsense. He got upon his feet, brushed the leaves from his clothes, and remarked that it was high time he and his chums were moving. "What's your hurry?" inquired Dave. "You can't find no better company than we be anywhere about the Falls. Where do you stop when you get there, seeing there ain't no hotel to put up at?" "We're not going to put up at the Falls," replied Joe. "We shall stop there just long enough to buy a glass of milk or beg a drink of water of somebody, and then we shall take to the road for a ten-mile run before dark." "Those dogs over there," said Roy, jerking his head toward the prostrate animals, "disputed the right of way with us, and when I tried to drive them out of the road they came at us with such fury that we had to shoot them in self-defense. I hope they don't belong to any of you?" Roy said this, not because he cared a straw who owned the worthless curs, but for the reason that he felt some curiosity to know why Daily and his companions were so very indifferent regarding them and their fate. He had looked for a row the minute the men saw the bodies of the four-footed vagabonds; but instead of that, the woodsmen had not referred to the matter since they asked to see the weapon with which the shooting was done. "No; the dogs don't belong to none of us nor the sheep, neither," answered Daily. "Do you see them letters on the critter's head all mixed up together? That's Holmes's mark, and them dogs or any others are welcome to kill all the sheep he's got, for all we care. We don't like him none too well, for he harbored that detective till we told him to shove him out, and he would be one of the wardens if he wasn't afraid. Matt'll be staving blind mad when he hears of it, and mebbe you'd best keep outen his way when you get started, for he'll make you pay ten times what the critters was fairly worth. He sets a heap of store by them, for he brought 'em up here for watch-dogs to tell him when there was anybody coming to his shanty." "Did you say _Matt_ would be mad?" asked Joe, with a strange look on his face. "Matt who? What is his other name?" "His whole name is Matt Coyle," replied Daily. CHAPTER XV. MR. HOLMES'S WARNING. This was a surprise, and for some reasons it was a most disagreeable one. Of course Joe Wayring and his chums were not sorry that their old enemy, Matt Coyle, had escaped with his life when the canvas canoe was snagged and sunk in Indian River, but they were sorry that they had stumbled upon him in this unexpected way. Beyond a doubt Matt's failure to make himself master of the six thousand dollars that had been stolen from the Irvington bank, taken in connection with the loss of all his worldly goods and the imprisonment of his wife and boys, had had an effect upon him, and if such a thing were possible, Matt hated Joe and his friends with greatly increased hatred. The fact that the boys were in no way to blame for his misfortunes would not make the least difference to Matt Coyle. His bad luck began on the very day he made the acquaintance of the Wayring family, he looked upon Joe as his evil genius, and the young wheelmen knew well enough that unless they got out of the Glen's Falls neighborhood before Matt learned they were there, they would surely find themselves in trouble of some sort. "His whole name is Matt Coyle," repeated Daily. "He was the best guide, boatman and hunter down the Injun Lake way, but for some reason or other the rest of the men who were in that business didn't take to him, and so they clubbed together and drove him out. That wouldn't have been so very hard on Matt, for Ameriky is a tolerable big country and there's plenty of places for a guide and hunter to go; but they had to go and smash up everything he had so't he couldn't stay. They even took all his money and his rifle and clothes away from him, and turned him out to starve. He made his way up here by accident, and he's been living with us ever since. He's a good chap, and when he told me his story, I said to him that if I was in his place, I wouldn't sleep sound till every man and boy who had had a hand in mistreating me was burned outen house and home. Why, he lost six thousand dollars in hard money, Matt did; all the savings of years of honest work." "But he knows a way to get it all back and more too," said one of Dave's partners. "We expect him home with some of the boys to-day, and when he comes we'll all be rich." "Spence, you talk too much for a little man," said Dave, sternly. "Matt won't take it kind of you telling all his secrets. He warned us all not to say anything about it." "Fellows, we must be going," exclaimed Joe. "I know that everything these men have to say is full of interest, but listening to stories will not take us to our journey's end. By the way, how far is the railroad from here? I mean the one that runs through Dorchester?" "Fifteen miles, or such a matter," answered Daily. "But you couldn't never get there. The woods is so thick you couldn't take them wagons through. Your best plan is to stick to the road. Where did you say you was going to stop to-night?" "If we stay here much longer we'll have to stop in town," replied Joe. "We don't want to do that, so we shall keep going and get as close to a level country as we can before the dark overtakes us. Good-by." This was a moment that all the boys had been looking forward to with many misgivings. Would Daily and his men permit them to leave when they got ready? was a question that had often shaped itself in their minds, and which would now be answered in a very few seconds. To their immense relief the men who had been ready to shoot them half an hour before, showed no disposition to molest them or their property. They might be thieves and law-breakers, but they were not highwaymen. They said "So-long" very cordially, and saw the boys mount and ride away. "Now here's a mess, or will be if we don't make the best time we know how before night comes," said Arthur, when the first turn in the road took them out of sight of Dave Daily and his friends. "I don't know when I have been more astounded than I was when that outlaw pronounced Matt Coyle's name." "Didn't that juryman say that he believed Matt would some day turn up alive and as full of mischief as ever?" said Roy Sheldon. "And didn't we say that the Glen's Falls neighborhood would be just the place for him if he were on deck? Well, he's here. He must have had a time of it tramping all the way from Sherwin's Pond through the woods. But then I suppose he is used to such things." "He is at home wherever night overtakes him," said Arthur. "But I shouldn't think he would stick to the woods when there were so many roads handy." "Wouldn't he want to keep out of sight of the officers who were looking for the money he was known to have in his possession? So those six thousand dollars were the fruits of his honest toil, were they? And Matt was the best guide, boatman, and hunter in the Indian Lake country? That's news to me." "It's news to all of us," answered Joe; "but, to my notion, there's worse behind it. Where has Matt been with those men who are going to make the Buster band rich when they return?" "That's so," exclaimed Arthur. "Where has he? I noticed you inquired the distance to the railroad, and that made me think you were disturbed by the same suspicions I was. Do you believe Matt and his crowd were down there, and that they had anything to do with the rock we found on the track?" "I don't know what else to think," replied Joe. "It was the way those men acted rather than what they said that aroused my suspicions. Matt has been rich once, that is to say, he has had the handling of more money than he will ever make by his own labor, and isn't it natural to suppose that when he lost it he set his wits at work to conjure up some plan to get more? A man who will do the things Matt Coyle has done and threatened, will do worse if he gets the chance. It's time that fellow was shut up. The next time he tries to wreck a train he may be successful." This was all the boys had to say on the subject, but it was easy enough to see that they had resolved to put an officer on the squatter's track at the first opportunity. But then there was Tom Bigden, with whose doings I was by this time pretty well acquainted. Would they want him disgraced by the revelations Matt would be sure to make if he were brought before a court to be tried for his crimes? As Roy Sheldon afterward remarked, a big load would have been taken off Tom Bigden's shoulders if Matt Coyle had never been born. As soon as Daily and his men had been left out of sight Arthur Hastings began making the pace; and he made it so rapid that scarcely twenty minutes elapsed before they passed through an open gate and drew up before the back door of Mr. Holmes's house. They knew it when they saw it; and as they looked at all the evidences of thrift and comfort with which it was surrounded, they wished most heartily that Daily and all the rest of the Buster band might be brought to justice and that speedily. "Boys, we'll not put this fine property in jeopardy by stopping here," said Joe, in a low tone. "We'd be worse than heathen if we did, and Mr. Holmes ought to kick us off the place for hinting at such a thing. Good-evening, sir," he added, touching his cap to a gray-headed man in his shirt sleeves who just then came around the corner with a bucket of water in his hand. "Have you a pitcher of milk to spare, and can you give us a good big lunch to eat along the way?" "Oh, yes, I can do that," replied the man, whose countenance grew clouded when he saw the boys getting off their wheels, but brightened again at once when he learned that they did not intend to ask him for lodgings. "Plenty of milk and provender to spare, but no beds made up." "Mr. Holmes, we understand you perfectly," Joe hastened to reply. "We know just how you are situated, we sympathize with you, and we wouldn't stay in your house to-night if we knew your doors were open to us. We met Daily up the road a piece." "You did?" exclaimed Mr. Holmes. "And did you tell him you were going to stop here?" "We simply told him we should stop somewhere in town long enough to buy a glass of milk or beg a drink of water, and he raised no objection to it. I think you ought to know that Matt Coyle's dogs have been on the warpath again, and you have lost another sheep. Daily said it was in your mark." "That's too bad; too bad," said the old man, who had long ago ceased to hope for better times. "If they keep on they will kill all my stock. The members of the Buster band don't always go into the woods after meat now. The pastures are handier, and a sheep, calf, or nice young heifer is easier to shoot than deer. We can't prove anything against them, and are afraid to prosecute if we could." "Those dogs will never kill any more sheep for you," said Roy. "They wouldn't give us the road and we shot them. They're deader than herrings." I noticed that Roy always said "we" when speaking of this little circumstance. If anything unpleasant grew out of it, he did not mean that his friend Arthur should bear all the blame or take all the punishment. Mr. Holmes's face grew bright again, but he showed a little anxiety when he asked: "Did Daily see you do it, or does he know anything about it? Then I am surprised that he didn't make you pay for the dogs. Say," he went on, in a more guarded tone, "where are you going to stop to night?" Joe answered that they intended to camp in the woods, and hoped he could furnish them grub enough for supper and breakfast the next morning. "Of course I'll do that," said Mr. Holmes. "But take my advice and don't light a fire. The owner of the dogs you shot is a savage. He gets around at night as well as in the day-time, and since he came here last fall, he has put more mischief into the Buster band than they ever had in them before, and that was quite unnecessary. They never thought of shooting stock for their own use before he went among them, but they often do it now. They seem to take delight in breaking open every door that is fastened of nights, no matter whether they want to steal anything or not. I'd give something to know positively what that man Coyle intended to do with the spades, crowbar and axes he took out of my tool-house the other night." "What do you think he meant to do with them?" inquired Arthur, who thought from the way the man spoke that he had his suspicions. "I'm almost afraid to speak it out loud, for it don't seem possible that any man can be so wicked," replied Mr. Holmes. "The lawless acts of the Buster band have driven nearly everything away from us, but we've got the post-office left, and last night I got my weekly papers out of it. In one of them I read that a terrible railroad accident had been averted by the coolness and courage of a wheelman who rode across a trestle in the dark to warn the engineer of an approaching train that there was a rock on the track." "He rode over a trestle in the dark?" exclaimed Roy, who, impatient as he was to hear what else Mr. Holmes had to say, could not resist the temptation to torment Joe Wayring. "Now that's what I call pluck." "That is what the papers call it too," said Mr. Holmes. "Well, when the trainmen came to look into things they found that that rock didn't get upon the track by accident, but had been dug out of its bed on the top of the bluff and rolled there. Since then that bluff has been examined by detectives in the employ of the railroad, who found there a couple of spades, an axe and a crowbar all marked J.H. Those are the initials of my name, and they are on every tool I've got. They're in New London now, and if I thought anything would come of it, I would run down and look at them. If they are mine, that man Coyle was the leader of the gang who tried to wreck the train. At least he stole the tools, and I say he is the leader because the Buster band never would have thought of such a thing if he had not put it into their heads." "How do you know he stole your tools?" asked Roy, in some excitement. "Because I saw the prints of his feet in front of the door of the shop. They're as big as all out-doors, and his shoes are so nearly torn to pieces that it is a wonder to me how he can keep them on. Mebbe it's a little thing to build so much upon, but I know I am right," said the old man, earnestly. "If you could see that track once you would recognize it again the minute you saw it." Now, when it was too late to make amends for the oversight, Roy Sheldon proceeded to take himself severely to task for not making a closer examination of those big footprints he had seen about the rock. If Matt Coyle's track was there he could have picked it out from among the rest, for hadn't he and his companions taken a good look at it on the night Mr. Swan "surrounded" Matt's camp, and Matt crept up in their rear and stole all their boats? That "hoof" of his, as Mr. Swan called it, had "given the squatter away" on one occasion, and seemed in a fair way to do it again. Evidence that Matt was one of those who had tried to wreck the train was accumulating with encouraging rapidity. No doubt he and his gang had expected to bring a rich harvest out of that gulf after the sleeping passengers had been plunged into it, and that was what Daily's companion meant by saying that Matt would make them all wealthy when he came back. But what would they say when they learned that he had not brought a cent with him? "Of course it is not my place to offer advice, Mr. Holmes," said Arthur, at length, "but I really think it would be a good plan for you to go to the city and look at those tools. If they are yours you can say so, and may be the means of breaking up this nest of ruffians. There'll be a detective sent up." "But I don't want one sent here," exclaimed Mr. Holmes. "I'd be afraid to have him around, for the minute he went away I'd lose everything I've got." "He need not come near you," replied Arthur. "And he need not come on a wheel, either," added Joe. "If he does, he may get some innocent tourist into trouble. Let him be a tramp or a fugitive from justice, if you please." "That's the idea," interrupted the old man, excitedly. "Young fellow, your head's level. That would be his game, if he would only consent to play it, for fugitives and tramps are the ones the Buster band always receive with open arms." "That is what I thought. Well, they have a good one now, and what's more, they must like him, for Daily said Matt was a fine fellow; or something like that," soliloquized Joe. He did not utter the words aloud, for he wasn't sure it would be prudent to tell Mr. Holmes that he and his two friends were better acquainted with Matt Coyle than anybody in the Glen's Falls country. If they could help it, the boys did not mean to tell who they were or where they came from, for fear that the information might reach Matt's ears in a roundabout way. He was glad when Roy said: "Haven't we stayed here about long enough? If we want this to be our last night in the mountains we had better take to the road again." "I guess you had," replied Mr. Holmes, reluctantly. "I never was guilty of so inhospitable an act before, except when I showed Daily's letter to the detective who was stopping with me and asked him what I had better do about it, and I would not be guilty of it now if I could do as I pleased. Remember my advice and go to bed in the dark; for if you don't I am afraid you will have visitors before morning." The boys promised to bear the matter in mind, at the same time assuring the old man that it was no hardship for them to sleep out of doors, and Mr. Holmes hurried away to get the pitcher of milk and have a supper and breakfast put up for them. Being apprehensive that some of the Buster band might be on the watch, hoping to collect some damaging evidence against the farmer that would warrant them in burning his house, Joe Wayring and his friends did not once venture across the threshold, although often urged, but ate a lunch and drank their fill of milk while sitting on the back steps. When the boys offered to pay for being so royally entertained, Mr. Holmes would not listen to it. By putting it out of the power of those sheep-killing dogs to do any more mischief, they had done him and all the rest of the law-abiding men in the settlement a kindness, and he wished they could stay there for a week so that he and his neighbors might show them how grateful they were for it. If any citizen of that region had shot those dogs, he would have been homeless before another week had passed over his head. "I hope that Matt will not think that a citizen did do it, and proceed to wreak vengeance upon some one against whom he happens to hold a grudge," said Roy, as they moved swiftly out of the gate and turned down the road. "I still think that if Mr. Holmes and a few determined men would wake up and go about it in earnest, they could put an end to this reign of terror. I can't see why they don't try it." But there was one thing that Roy and his friends did not know, and Mr. Holmes had forgotten to speak of it. There was not a single building in Glen's Falls that had a dollar's worth of insurance upon it. The risks had all been canceled at the breaking out of the war of the Rebellion, and there had been none taken there since. This was one thing that made Mr. Holmes and his neighbors so very timid. The town of Glen's Falls was a dreary looking spot, as the boys found when they came to ride through it. There was a forest of fine shade-trees on each side of the wide principal thoroughfare, but there was grass instead of walks under them, and the buildings behind were rapidly falling to pieces. The evidences of former prosperity that met their eyes on every hand proved that there had once been money and brains in the place, and that it would have amounted to something before this time if Dave Daily and the rest of the Buster band had been out of the way. They slaked their thirst at a pump on the corner of a cross-road and continued on their way without meeting a single person. If it had not been for an occasional head they saw through the windows of some of the houses they passed, they would have said that the town was deserted. Their guide-book told them that the road that led from Glen's Falls through the mountains to the low country beyond was so plain it could not be missed, and perhaps it was when the man who wrote the book passed that way on his wheel; but it was not so now. Roads there were in abundance, and they all ran down hill in the direction the boys wanted to go; but they were filled with obstructions, and no particular one of them showed more signs of travel than another. "I'd like to see the fellow who says he had a mile of the best of coasting along this road try his hand at it now," said Roy, seating himself on a log and cooling his flushed face with his cap while he waited for one or the other of his friends to go ahead and take the lead. "I'm tired out, and if I was sure it would be quite safe to do so, I should be in favor of going into camp." "I don't believe he ever came along this road," said Joe. "We've got a little out of our reckoning, that's all." "And not only are there no cows near by to give us a drink of milk, but we wouldn't dare go after it if there were, for fear of that villain Matt Coyle," groaned Roy. "Doesn't it beat you how that fellow keeps turning up?" "And at the very time he isn't wanted," chimed in Arthur. "If you want to stop, all right; but don't let's stop here. I think it would be safer to go into the bushes and hide. I don't much like the idea of passing the night without a fire, but I confess that what Mr. Holmes said frightened me. I wish we might get a hundred miles away before Matt comes home and hears that his watch-dogs have been shot." The others wished so too, but they hadn't energy enough to go any farther that night, and besides the appearance of the road ahead of them was discouraging. It ran down a steep bank until it was lost among the trees and bushes as its foot, and probably there was another bank just as rough and steep on the other side of the brook which ran through the gully. They made the descent, and there they found a stream of water so sparkling and cold that the sight of it was more than they could resist. They carried their wheels into the bushes, making as little trail as possible, and at the distance of ten or fifteen yards from the road found a camping place; or, rather, a thicket that would be a nice spot for a camp when some of its interior was cut away so that they could spread their blankets. They did not use their camp-axes for fear that the noise they would necessarily make in chopping away the brush would serve as a guide to some one they did not care to see. They worked silently with their knives, and at the end of half an hour had as comfortable a camp as a tired boy would wish to see, if there had only been a cheerful fire to light it. They ate their supper in the dark, took a refreshing bath in the brook, and then lay down with their blankets about them and their loaded pocket rifles close at hand. This was the first time they had found it necessary to adopt this precaution, and they hoped it would be the last. About an hour after my master's regular breathing told me that he had fallen fast asleep, I was startled by hearing voices a little distance away. I could not tell which direction they came from, but I knew they were men's voices, and that they were angrily discussing some point on which there seemed to be a difference of opinion. I was still more startled when Arthur Hastings raised himself upon his elbow, shook Joe Wayring roughly by the shoulder, and whispered in his ear: "Wake up, here. Matt Coyle's coming." "Where?" asked Joe, who was wide awake in an instant. "Coming along the very road we'd had to go up if we'd climbed the hill on the other side of the brook," replied Arthur. "Do you hear that? They're stopping for a drink. Reach over and give Roy a shove. Be careful to put your hand on his mouth for he is apt to speak out when he is suddenly aroused." Be careful maneuvering on Joe's part Roy was awakened without betraying his presence to the men, who had by this time halted at the brook, and then the three boys sat up on their blankets and listened. CHAPTER XVI. TWO NARROW ESCAPES. "I tell you I feel so savage that I could bite a nail in two an' not half try," were the first words that came to the ears of the listening wheelmen. They were preceded by a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction, such as a thirsty boy sometimes utters when he has taken a hearty drink of water. "Seems to me that I can't turn in no direction no way but I find them oneasy chaps at my heels to pester the life out of me. They're to blame for me losin' them six thousand dollars of mine that I worked hard fur, dog-gone 'em." How the boys trembled when that harsh voice grated on their ears. It was Matt Coyle's, sure enough. They had heard it so often that there could be no mistake about it. "They was the ones that blocked this little game of mine, an' sent me an' the fellers hum empty-handed when we thought to come back rich," Matt went on, growing angrier and raising his voice to a higher key as he proceeded. "I seen 'em as plain as daylight; an' now I come hum to find that they've been here an' shot them two dogs that I was dependin' on to keep the constable away from my shanty. Did anybody ever hear of sich pizen luck?" "If you saw them there at the rock, what was the reason you did not drive them off so't the train could run into it?" inquired another familiar voice,--in point of fact, the voice of Dave Daily. The boys were surprised to know that he was there, and wondered if he had come out to meet Matt and put him on their trail. If he had, what was his object in doing it? Did he want to see them punished for shooting those savage dogs, or did he want to have them robbed? "You say you and your crowd worked hard to get that rock down the bluff and onto the track, and yet you sot there in the bresh and let one single boy turn you from your purpose, which was to bust up the train," continued Daily. "He must have been alone, for you say yourself that one of his friends went one way and t'other went t'other to tell the engineer to watch out. Why didn't you go down and pitch him into the ravine?" "What would have been the good of doin' that, seein' that Joe an' Arthur had already went off?" demanded the squatter, with some show of spirit. "An' don't I tell you that he had a pistol or something in his hand." Daily uttered an exclamation of impatience. "'Twasn't a pistol nor nothing of the sort," said he. "It was a little pop-gun that wouldn't hit the side of a barn nor shoot through a piece of card-board. Before I would say that I was scared by a little thing like that I would go off and hide myself; wouldn't you, Spence?" "Them pop-guns was big enough an' ugly enough to kill them two dogs of mine, an' I ain't got no call to face sich we'pons," retorted Matt, who, as you know, always took care to look out for number one. "An' here we've been hidin' around in the bresh fur most a week, fearin' the officers, when we might as well come hum to onct. That's another thing that makes me mad. I do wish I could get my two hands onto them boys fur a little while, an' you fellers here to help me. I'd larrup 'em so't they wouldn't ever come nigh here agin, I bet you." "I don't know whether you would or not," replied Daily. "I kinder liked 'em, and as long as they ain't officers--" "That's so," interrupted Matt. "But they're jest the chaps to put the constables onto your trail an' mine. That's their best holt. Didn't you say that if you was in my place you wouldn't rest easy till everybody who had had a hand in mistreatin' you had been burned outen house an' home? Well, them are three of 'em." "Now why didn't you say so?" demanded the chief of the Buster band. "If we'd only knowed that, we'd a kept 'em for you," added Spence's voice. "Wouldn't we, Dave? Now that I come to think of it, the youngsters never told us who they was or where they come from, and we didn't think to ask them." "They'd a lied to you if you had," said Matt, and the boys judged by the sound of crunching gravel that he was pacing back and forth across the road like some caged wild animal. "That's the kind of fellers they be; an' now I'll tell you what's a fact: If you don't help me ketch them fellers an' hold 'em so't they can't get away till we get ready to let 'em, this country of your'n will be thick with officers afore two weeks more has gone by. That's the way it was down to Injun Lake." "And this is what we get by taking you in and feeding you when you was nigh about dead, is it?" exclaimed Daily, in angry tones. "I bet you that the next tramp who comes this way will be kicked out before he has time to tell his story. You've brought some of our boys into trouble by talking them big notions of your'n into their heads, and telling how easy it was to smash a train and get thousands of dollars outen the pocket of the folks--Ugh! I can't bear to think of what fools we made of ourselves by listening to you. Now you clear yourself, before we make an end of you for good." "I come here 'cause I had to go somewhere, didn't I?" said Matt, in tones that were fully as angry and fierce as Daily's. "I'm sorry enough I done it, for you're not the men I took you for. You're willin' to stand here with your hands in your pockets an' let them rich folks tell you what an' when you shall eat." "No, we ain't," roared Daily. "We're free Amerikin citizens, and we don't allow nobody to tell us what we shall do." "Well, then, what makes you talk to me that-a-way?" cried Matt. "I come here to help, an' I've told you of more ways to bother the folks who want to make laws for you than you would have thought of in ten years' time. As fur puttin' that rock on the track, nobody suspicions who done it, an' we laid around in the bresh so't the officers, if any happened to be here, shouldn't see us comin' from t'wards the railroad. I'm free to say that I didn't want to go down to the track alone an' face the we'pon that Sheldon boy had in his hand (I knowed him dark as it was), but I offered to go if any one would go with me; an' they wouldn't. Ask 'em if it ain't so." This proved to Roy Sheldon's entire satisfaction that he had done the right thing when he pulled his pocket rifle from its case, shoved a cartridge into it, and prepared to defend himself if the train-wreckers thought it best to attack him. It seems that they did watch him and discuss plans for getting him out of their way, but some of the timid ones among them saw the light reflected from the nickel-plated ornaments on his rifle, and could not muster courage enough to show themselves. "Nobody don't suspicion that we put the rock on the track," repeated Matt, "an' that ain't why the officers will come here. You're the one who done the mischief--you, yourself. As soon as one of them boys began to let on that they knowed who you was, you showed them all the letters an' things you writ for the papers, an' talked to 'em like they was friends of your'n. You will find yourself in trouble all along of that nonsense, if you don't do what I say." "That puts a different look on the matter," said Daily, in a much milder tone, "and, Matt, I'm sorry I jawed you that-a-way. Fact of it is, I couldn't help it. We've been in a power of trouble and trib'lation ever since them rich folks down to Washington sent for us to go and fight their war for 'em, and then went and made laws against shooting deer and ketching trout, and we've got pretty well riled up. What do you think we had best do?" "Nab them boys fust an' foremost," said the squatter emphatically. "That's the fust thing; then, after I have had my satisfaction outen 'em, by tyin' 'em to a tree an' larrupin' 'em with hickories, like I would have done with that there pizen Joe Wayring if them friends of his'n hadn't come up an' rescooed him--after I've done all that, I'll take a day off an' think what we'll do next. One thing is sartin: them boys must not be let go out of these mountings till their mouths has been shut about the Buster band in some way or 'nuther." "Ketching of 'em is going to be the hardest part of the whole business," remarked Spence. "They skum along right peart after we let them go, and I b'lieve they are plumb outen the mountings by this time. If they are--" "But they ain't, I tell you," Matt Coyle interposed. "It don't lay in no steam injun, let alone a bisickle, to get outen these mountings betwixt five o'clock an' dark. They're camped summers between here an' Ogden, an' all we've got to do is to circle round to our usual lookin'-out place an' stay there till we see 'em comin'; then we'll run down an' stop 'em. When I get my hands onto 'em they'd best watch out, fur I feel jest like poundin' 'em plumb to death to pay'em fur stickin' that innercent ole woman of mine in jail. An' the boys too; the very best, honestest an' hardest workin' boys that any pap ever had. They're likewise shut up all along of that pizen Joe Wayring an' his rich friends." These words were followed by the strangest sounds the boys had ever heard. If they had not known Matt Coyle as well as they did, they would have been sure he was crying. All this while the men (and there seemed to be a large party of them) had been taking turns drinking at the brook; and having quenched their thirst they started on again with a common impulse, not along the road, but up the stream on whose right-hand bank the boys were encamped. There could be no doubt of it, for there was no longer any crunching of gravel under the heels of their heavy boots, but the bushes snapped and swayed, and the voices came more distinctly to their ears. Matt Coyle was the one who did most of the talking. He did not seem to take his failure to wreck the train so very much to heart, but he bewailed the loss of his dogs, whose good qualities could not be enumerated by any one man, and asked who would warn him now if the officers came to his shanty some dark night to arrest him. "They are coming this way as sure as the world," whispered Roy, drawing his feet closer to him and placing an elbow on each knee so that he could have a dead rest with his rifle. "Why don't the fools stick to the road? It's easier walking there than it is in the bushes." "This is no doubt a short cut to their hiding-place," replied Joe. "Stand together, fellows, and we'll show them what we are made of. We'll give them fair warning, and if they are foolish enough to disregard it, they will have to take the consequences." "That's what's the matter," whispered Arthur, cautiously moving a little closer to his friends. "I'm afraid, but I'll never be tied to a tree and whipped; they can bet on that." I can not begin to tell you how frightened I was as I stood there and listened to the voices and footsteps of those desperate men who were every minute drawing nearer to our place of concealment. Remember, I was utterly helpless. However good my will may have been, I did not possess the power to do the first thing to aid my master in the fight which I firmly believed would be commenced in less than ten seconds. And bear another thing in mind: If the young wheelmen were found there, and were overpowered and taken captive, the shooting of Matt Coyle's worthless dogs was not the only thing for which they would be punished. They knew Matt's secret. They knew that he and some of his party had tried to wreck a train. They had talked about it where the boys could plainly hear every word they uttered. Of course Matt would know it, if he found them there in the bushes, and what would he do? How would he go to work to "shut up their mouths," as he had spoken of doing? I assure you this thought was enough to make even my steel nerves shake; and I believe it must have passed through Joe Wayring's mind and frightened him, for I heard him say, in a scarcely audible whisper: "It's do or die, fellows. That villain will be wild with rage if he learns that we heard all he said to Dave Daily. If the worst must come, be sure of your man before you shoot." That moment's terrible suspense is something I never shall forget; then the reaction came, and I felt as if I were going to fall in a heap like a piece of wet rope. There was a tolerably well-beaten path along the bank of the brook, but it was on the other side. Dave Daily and his gang of villains followed it, and that was all that saved us. If there had been a spark of fire on our side the brook as big as the end of your finger, I should have had a different story to tell. I was so confused that I could not pay any attention to their conversation, but I counted them as they passed along in Indian file, and when at last they were out of hearing and Roy Sheldon spoke, I knew his count agreed with mine. "Thirteen," was all he said; and then he lay down on his blanket and probably looked as nerveless as I felt. "And at least half of them must have been with Matt," added Arthur Hastings. "I know it took six or seven men to roll that bowlder out of the ditch and place it on the track. Great Scott! Wasn't that a narrow escape!" "I'd like to know how we shall come out to-morrow," said Joe, anxiously. "That 'looking-out place' that Matt spoke of must command a view of the road along which we will have to go to get to Ogden, and if we do not mind what we are about, Matt will meet and stop us there." This was another thing the young wheelmen had to worry over, and taken in connection with the vivid recollection of the exciting scene through which they had just passed, it effectually banished sleep from their eyes for the rest of the night. And daylight was a long time coming, as it always is when anxiously waited and watched for. They ate breakfast as they had eaten supper--in the dark--and when the birds began singing picked up their wheels and struck out for the road, which they found to be quite as bad as it looked on the previous evening. The first hill they encountered was a hard one, as they knew it was going to be, and when they gained the top they had to go down again on the other side. Of course the woods were about as dark as they could be, and it was anything but pleasant for the leading boy to feel his way while trundling his wheel beside him. But the fear of Matt Coyle's wrath and the hope of passing his "looking-out place" before the sun arose, drove them on, and to such good purpose that, by the time they could see to ride, they found themselves on a smooth, well-traveled highway. They did not stop to ask one another whether or not it was the road they wanted to find. It led away from the mountains, and that was all they cared to know. "Away we go on our wheels, boys," sang Joe; and suiting the action to the word he sprang into his saddle and set out at a lively pace. "Now, Matt Coyle, come on. It would take a better horse than you ever did or ever will own to stop us." "But a stick thrown into the road might do the business for us," suggested Roy. "You don't suppose Matt knows that, do you?" said Arthur. "Does anybody see anything that looks as though it might be used for a lookout station?" Nobody did. There was nothing to be seen but a cultivated field on the right hand, a thickly wooded hill-side on the left, and a farm house in the distance. True there was a high, bald peak a little to the left of the hill over which the road disappeared, but it was all of ten or fifteen miles away, and a man stationed on its summit would have needed a good glass to make us out. At least that was what Joe Wayring said, and then he dismissed all fears of Matt Coyle from his mind, and made a motion with his hand as if to throw open the breech of his pocket rifle, which he had thus far carried in readiness for any emergency that might arise, and remove the cartridge; but, on reflection, he decided to wait a little longer. It was lucky he did so, and that his companions followed his example. If the Buster band really had a "looking-out place" anywhere within sight of the road I don't know it, but I do know that by taking short cuts through the mountains they managed to reach the highway in advance of us, for when we reached the top of the hill of which I have spoken, and the wheelmen were about to stow the rifles in their cases preparatory to a coast, Matt Coyle and Dave Daily suddenly stepped out of a thicket on one side of the road, and as many more ruffians arose from behind the fence on the other. They were about thirty yards away, and although all except Matt carried guns in their hands, I was relieved to see that there was not a club or stone among them. They supposed that all they had to do was to form across the road, call upon the boys to halt, and they would be obeyed. "Them's the fellers--the very chaps I've been a-lookin' fur," yelled the squatter, shaking his fists in the air and striking up a war-dance in the middle of the road. "Now I'll have the whole on you, an' there won't be nobody to interfere when I--" "Full speed, boys," said Joe, in a low tone. "Hold fast to your guns and be ready to stop if anybody gets unhorsed. It's our only chance. Get out of the way," he cried, flourishing his cocked rifle above his head with one hand while he guided me with the other. "Get out of the way or we will run you down. If we strike you, you are dead men." It never occurred to Matt and Dave to ask each other what would become of the boys themselves if their headlong progress were suddenly stopped, and neither did they linger to try the experiment. The three Columbias fairly whistled through the air; and when Matt saw that his peremptory orders to halt were disregarded, and that we were charging down upon him with apparently irresistible force, he scuttled out of the way with the greatest haste, and Dave Daily, the terrible man who hid in the woods and shot at officers unawares, was not an inch behind him. "Look out for them pop-guns," he yelled. "Yes, look out for them," shouted Arthur. "They're death on all sorts of varmints." In less time than it takes to tell it the danger was over. Moving abreast and going at almost railroad speed we flew down the hill, and the way was clear. I caught just one glimpse of Matt Coyle's scowling and astonished face as we sped by, and that was the first and last time I ever saw him. After that I did not wonder that my master and his friends were resolved to fight to the death and take any risks rather than fall into his power, for if I ever saw an evil face I saw it then. But the man who carried it around with him was a coward, and so was the leader of the Buster band, who was afraid of the pocket rifles. If those handy little weapons had brought their owners into difficulty, they had also assisted in getting them out of it. Being afraid to apply the brakes the boys regulated their speed with the pedals as well as they could, and when the foot of the hill was reached they stopped and looked behind them. There was no one in sight. [Illustration: The Run for Safety.] "That was another tight squeak," said Roy, holding fast to his wheel with one hand and fanning himself with the other, as he always did when a halt was made, "and nothing but Matt's ignorance and Dave's brought us through. Well, I don't know that we are to blame if they didn't have sense enough to throw something in the road in front of us." The excitement for that day was all over now, and I was very glad of it. The road being good and the coasting places frequent, we bowled along at a lively pace, and at four o'clock in the afternoon rode into the village of Ogden, where we halted for the night. One of the loungers on the porch was reading aloud from a weekly paper which had but just arrived with news that was no news to city people by this time. Of course the work of the train-wreckers was given a prominent place, as well as a lengthy notice. As I leaned against the porch and listened, I asked myself what those loungers would have said if some one had told them that the three dusty boys who had just disappeared through the doorway were the ones who brought the efforts of the train-wreckers to naught. Roy and Arthur respected Joe's wishes, and never, in any one's hearing, spoke of what he had done that night. CHAPTER XVII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. From the morning Joe Wayring and his friends left Ogden up to the time they wheeled over the old familiar road that led into Mount Airy, not a single thing happened to mar the pleasure of their trip. I do not mean to say that the roads were always good, or that they were never weather-bound; for those petty annoyances fall to the lot of every tourist, he expects them, and knows how to make the best of them. But they found no more train-wreckers along the route, nor were there any Buster bands or Matt Coyles to be afraid of. They spent many a night in camp; their pocket rifles brought them all the young squirrels they cared to eat; they encountered tramps on nearly every mile of the way, and although they never had the least trouble with these social outcasts, they listened to a story from the lips of two of them that interested them exceedingly, and proved to Roy Sheldon's entire satisfaction that the clear-sighted Joe Wayring had hit pretty close to the mark when he declared that Roy's presence aboard the White Squall had not been brought about by accident. Their destination was Plymouth, a little sea-port town situated on a bay of the same name. They spent a day roaming about the wharves, looking at everything there was to be seen, especially the ships, which would hardly have attracted more than a passing notice from them, had it not been for Roy's experience in New London harbor. They went aboard of one, looked all over it, marveled at its strength and more at the power of the winds and waves which could so easily make a wreck of man's best handiwork. They turned up their noses at the dingy forecastle, smelling of tar and bilgewater, and wondered how any one could bring himself to bunk in it during a long voyage. "I would much rather sleep on a bed of hemlock boughs," said Joe, "and go out in the morning and catch my own breakfast from the sparkling waters of a lake or brook, and serve it up on a piece of clean bark. If I had been in love with the sea when I came here, I would be all over it now." "It's rough, isn't it?" said Roy, as he and his companions went down the gang-plank to the wharf; and he trembled all over when he thought how near he had come to being carried to distant countries against his will. "The little I saw of a sailor's life while I was on the White Squall convinced me that the officers are more to be dreaded than the forecastle. They can be as brutal as they please when they are out of sight of land, and there's no law to touch them." "There's law enough," answered Joe, "but the trouble is, a sailor man can't use it. Suppose he has the officers of his vessel arrested for cruelty while he has the rest of the crew at hand to prove it against them. They are put under bonds, but the case is postponed on one pretext or another, and while that is being done, how is Jack going to live? Of course the minute he gets ashore he makes haste to spend his wages, and when his last dollar is gone what recourse has he but to ship for another voyage? Then the case is called, and there being no one to prosecute, the captain and his mates are discharged and go aboard their vessel to play the same game over again." "That's about the way those light-ship men put it when I threatened to have Captain Jack punished for kidnapping me," said Roy. "That may be law, but it isn't justice. I wonder where the White Squall and Tony and Bob are now." "I shouldn't think you would care," replied Arthur. "I know I shouldn't if I had been treated as you have." "I don't much care what becomes of the ship and her officers, but I am sorry for the crew. I tell you that Tony and Bob were shanghaied the same as I was." Becoming weary of Plymouth and its surroundings at last, the boys took the road again, this time with their faces turned toward Mount Airy. They went back by a different route, as they intended to do when they set out; but they had another reason for it now. Money would not have hired them to return across the mountains and take their chances of capture by Matt Coyle and the Buster band. Now that they could think over their adventures with calmness, they were surprised at the ease with which they had slipped through those ruffians' fingers. They knew they couldn't do it again, and they would have gone home by rail rather than try the mountain route a second time. There was one thing about it, Arthur repeatedly declared: The man who wrote their guide-book must be posted so that he could warn wheelmen to keep away from Glen's Falls until the mischief-making squatter and his new allies had been arrested and lodged in jail. On the afternoon of the second day after leaving Plymouth, the boys came suddenly upon a couple of tramps who had halted under the shade of a tree by the road-side to eat the bread and meat they had begged at the nearest farmhouse. But these men were not like the other tramps they had seen. They were sailors on the face of them, and looked out of place there in the country so far from salt water. Roy Sheldon was sure there was something familiar about them, and hardly knowing why he did so, he called out, as he moved past them, "Bob, Tony," whereupon the men jumped to their feet and stared hard at him without saying a word. They were evidently frightened, and would have taken to their heels if they had seen the least chance for escape. "I declare, I believe they are Tony and Bob," said Roy, who was utterly amazed at the effect his words had produced upon the tramps; and turning about, he rode back to the tree under which they stood. "How in the name of all that's wonderful did you get stranded here?" "Is--is it Rowe Shelly?" one of the men managed to ask. "Yes, sir, they are Tony and Bob," exclaimed Roy, getting off his wheel and nodding at his companions. "Dusty as they are, I know them. What's the matter?" he added, as the men began backing away as if they did not want him to come any nearer. "You are not afraid of me, are you? I am not a ghost, and neither am I Rowe Shelly, although my name sounds somewhat like his, and I have been told that I look like him. I am a different boy altogether. Now let's have the straight of this thing before we go any farther. I saw you carried to sea on the White Squall. How did you escape from her, and where is she now?" "At the bottom of the ocean," replied one of the men; and the boys thought from the way he spoke he was glad to be able to say it. "At the bottom of--" began Roy, incredulously. "Serves her just right. She had no business to--but everything goes to show that you took me aboard of her on purpose to have me kidnapped. What have you to say about it? Sit down and eat your dinner. You can talk just as well, and you act as though you were very hungry." "So we are, sir," said the one whom Roy had picked out, and who he afterward addressed as Tony. "We never done such a thing before, sir, but we had to come to it. It's no use trying to hide the truth any longer, for it has come out on us. Yes, sir; me and Bob did take you aboard that ship on purpose." "There, now," cried Joe, indignantly, while Arthur Hastings looked and acted as though he wanted to light. "But what object did you have in doing it?" continued Roy. "Who put you up to it--Willis?" "He's the very chap, sir: but we've been punished for it, and we hope--" "You've nothing whatever to fear from me, if that is what you want to say," interposed Roy, who was impatient to get at the bottom of what was to him a deep mystery. "You know how I got away, and here I am, safe and sound. Your actions proved that you did not think you were going to be shanghaied yourselves--what are you looking for?" "You're right we didn't know it, sir," answered Tony, who pulled out his ditty-bag, and after a little fumbling in it drew forth a piece of soiled paper which he handed to Roy. "That, sir, is the letter I took to Cap'n Jack that night. If I had only known what was writ onto it, me and Bob would have kept clear of that ship, you may be sare. The cap'n dropped it on deck shortly after you went overboard, and I made bold to pick it up without saying a word to him about it. I thought it would come handy some day. Read it for yourself, sir, and you will see that me and Bob was innocent of any intention of doing the least harm to you, sir." "Didn't you know that I was going to be kidnapped?" exclaimed Roy, almost fiercely. "You did. Everything goes to prove it; but you thought you could get me into trouble and slip off the ship without getting into trouble yourselves." "Not a bit of it, sir," said Tony, with so much earnestness that Roy was almost ready to believe him. "Read that paper, and then I will tell you just what was said and done in my house on the beach while you was fast asleep up-stairs." The letter, which bore neither date nor signature, ran as follows: "CAPTAIN JACK ROWAN:--Knowing that you have been delayed nearly three weeks waiting for a crew, I send you three men who, I think, will be of use to you. Two of them used to be sailors, but the other is green and will have to be broken in. Ask no questions, but take them along. A FRIEND." Roy Sheldon was so surprised that he could not speak again immediately. He leaned his wheel against the tree, looked first at Tony and then at his friends, and finally sat down on a convenient bowlder. "Seems to me that there letter clears me and Bob of everything except taking you aboard the White Squall when we didn't want to do it," said Tony, after a pause. "We was as innocent as babbies of what happened afterwards." "If you didn't want to do it what made you?" demanded Joe. This brought Tony to the story he had to tell; and as I believe I can make it clearer to you than he did to Joe and his friends, I will tell it in my own language. Rowe Shelly's guardian, who was fond of the water, kept a swift sailing-vessel as well as a steam yacht, and Tony and Bob Bradley belonged to it. The colonel furnished them a house, gave them regular employment during the yachting season, and in the winter time permitted them to make what money they could by shooting water-fowl at the lower end of the island for the New London markets. They knew nothing whatever of the colonel's private affairs. They had heard a good many rumors. "I want to say a word right there," interrupted Roy. "Where did those rumors come from?" The boys had seated themselves on the ground on each side of the sailors, who ate their dinner as they talked. Tony acted as spokesman, but his brother jogged his memory with a word now and then. The former could not say where the rumors came from, but the mischief was all done by an old sailor, who settled on one of the uninhabited islands in the harbor and went to fishing for a livelihood. Rowe Shelly chanced to run athwart his hawse one day while sailing about in his boat. He talked with the old fellow for more than two hours, and when he came home he exploded a bomb-shell in his guardian's ear. In other words, he told the colonel that there was no relationship between them; that he had no business with the money he was squandering; that his father had not been lost at sea, as the colonel affirmed; that he was still alive, and so was his mother; that they lived in Chelsea, Maryland; and that he was going to them as soon as he could get off the island. "I know that was a sassy way for him to talk to the man who had always been so good to him, seeing that he hadn't no better evidence than an old sailor-man's unsupported word to back him up," said Tony, "but the way the colonel acted satisfied Rowe at once that there was more'n a grain of truth in what he had heard. The first thing he done was to take away the boy's boat, and shut him up on the island as close as if it had been a jail, and his second, to get rid of the fisherman. How he done it nobody seems to know; but he wasn't never seen again, nuther by Rowe Shelly nor nobody else. But the mischief had been done, and the first thing we knowed, Rowe Shelly couldn't be found. How he got off the island nobody couldn't tell, but he and his bisickle was gone. They was gone for more'n two weeks; but Willis, who acts like he was as big a man on the island as the colonel himself, follered him up and ketched him with the help of detectives." "How did this fisherman happen to know so much about Rowe's father and mother?" inquired Arthur. "He was shipmates with 'em; lived next door to them in some town down South," replied Tony. "He knowed the little boy, Rowe Shelly, and used to trot him on his knee and tell him stories of furrin parts, and he knowed well enough that there was some sort o' hocus-pocus about it, or the colonel wouldn't never had that money the old grandfather left. You see it sorter hurt the old feller when Cap'n Shelly, who was his only child, married a widder with a growed-up son against his will, and it hurt him, too, to have the cap'n keep on going to sea when he didn't want him to; and so he said that the cap'n shouldn't never have a red cent of his money. But when Grandfather Shelly found that he'd got to pass in his checks, and that the dark river was waiting for him, he gives in and willed all the money to the cap'n, provided he would settle down on shore." When this happened, as you have already heard, Captain Shelly was at sea. His ship, the Mary Ann Tolliver, was lost, and as nothing was heard from him or any of the crew everybody supposed that all hands had been lost with her. This was the opportunity for the rascally step-son, and straightway he was up and doing. With his mother's full and free consent he was appointed Rowe's guardian and administrator of the property that had fallen to him, and then he was in clover. Finding that the boy's mother was in his way, and that she was strenuously opposed to any squandering of Rowe's money, he proceeded to rid himself of her presence. He did not exactly turn her out of doors, as Rowe thought he did, but he _lost_ her--sent her away on a visit, and when she returned he wasn't to be found. He and Rowe were in Europe, and there they stayed until the guardian thought she had had ample time to die or forget him. Then he came back, bought an island in New London harbor, so that he could not readily be intruded upon and Rowe could not easily slip out of his grasp if he wanted to, and set himself up for a gentleman of wealth and leisure. In the mean time Captain Shelly and some of his men, who had been picked up and carried to some distant port, returned, and the captain and his wife were reunited; but the former, being broken in health and spirits and ruined financially (every dollar he owned in the world went down with his ship), did not and could not make any very persevering effort to find out what had become of his scapegrace step-son and the little boy who was worse than orphaned. After a year or two spent in useless search he gave them up for lost; but others interested themselves in the matter, not for the purpose of aiding in restoring Captain Shelly to his rights, but simply to benefit their own pockets, and two of them, who succeeded in learning enough to keep Rowe's guardian in constant fear of exposure, were Willis and his son, Benny, who were given a home and paying situations on the island. "If that isn't the biggest piece of villainy I ever heard of I wouldn't say so," exclaimed Joe, his face flushing with honest indignation. "Did you ever talk to Rowe Shelly about these things?" "Who? Me?" cried Tony, in surprise. "Not by a great sight, sir. If I had, I would have been bundled off that there island so quick that I couldn't have told what my name was. I had a good home, and didn't want to lose it by meddling in things that didn't concern me." "Well, your story agrees with the one Rowe told us on the night our friend was kidnapped and taken to the island, and I, for one, am inclined to believe it." "I give it to you, sir, just as I got it," answered Tony. "You asked what them rumors was that we heard, and I have told you. If there wasn't no truth in 'em, what made the colonel act as he did--take the boy's boat away from him and keep him close about home, with orders to all of us from Willis to watch out for him?" "That also confirms Rowe's story," said Arthur. "You know he told us he thought every one on the island was hired to keep an eye on him. We are all satisfied so far," he continued, turning to the old sailor. "Now, go ahead and tell us how you came to take Roy Sheldon over to that ship when you didn't want to?" "Me and Bob never served aboard that ship till we was shanghaied on her," answered Tony, "but we had heard enough about her to make our hair stand on end. She was so rotten in some places that you could jab a knife into her timbers the whole length of the blade, and the companies wouldn't put a cent of insurance on her, and nobody but such reckless men as Cap'n Jack and his mates would sail on her. They got good pay for doing it, and for shipping crews against their will and holding a still tongue about the vessel's condition. But she's gone now," said Tony, rubbing his horny hands together almost gleefully, "and nobody will ever be fooled with her again. She sprung a leak in less'n half a gale 'bout two hunderd miles off the Cape, and went down like a log spite of all we could do at the pumps. We kept her afloat for seventy-two hours, and just as we were nigh going down, the brig Sarah West took us off and brung us into Plymouth." "Where are you going now?" asked Roy. "Back to the island where our families is," replied Tony. "We ain't got no place else to go, but we ain't going to stay there. We'll take our dunnage and go somewheres else, for fear that the island may sink into the harbor with such men aboard of it. We dassent stay there no longer. If Rowe has got safe off, knowing what he does, he'll kick up a row there, and if they'll let me into court, I'd just like to shove this paper at the judge and ask him will he take a squint at it, if he wants to see what sort of a landshark that man Willis is. We are powerful glad to see you again," he added, extending his hand to Roy, who shook it cordially, "and to know you didn't come to no harm all along of our taking you aboard the White Squall." After this Tony went on with his story, to which, in order to make it plain to you, I will add a few things that he did not know. They came out months afterward, but this is the place to speak of them. Although the housekeeper and all the people who were on the jetty when the yacht arrived were willing to believe that Roy Sheldon was really Rowe Shelly, Willis himself was perfectly well satisfied that he and Babcock had made the biggest kind of a blunder. The question was: How should he get out of his difficulty? Willis looked everywhere for Benny, who was his right-hand man in all emergencies; but that worthy had gone over to the city that afternoon, and would probably return on a hired tug some time in the morning. You will remember that while Mrs. Moffatt was talking to Roy, and urging him to let her send up a lunch to that he might have a bite handy in case he became hungry before morning, the superintendent paced the room lost in thought. As he looked at the matter, it was absolutely necessary that Roy should be got rid of before daylight, and so effectually that no trace of him could be discovered. The superintendent's first thought was to drug him, put him into a boat, and shove him out into the harbor in time for the storm, which was already muttering in the distance, to blow him to sea. But that would involve too many risks of a rescue, and Willis at last decided to hold to his original plan and "take Tony into his confidence." When he went downstairs with Mrs. Moffatt he left the house and hurried to Tony's cabin on the beach. "The minute he come into the door I knew there was something the matter of him," said the sailor, "for I had never seen him look so queer and wild before; but how he ever made out to pull the wool over my eyes and Bob's as he done by the ridikilis tale he told us, is something I can't now get through my head. Nuther can Bob, and we've talked about it a hunderd times or more. Seems now that we'd oughter known it wasn't so, but we didn't. 'Boys,' says he, mighty soft and palavering like, but all the while acting as though there wasn't nothing wrong, 'I want you to do something for me. Two weeks ago Cap'n Jack Rowan of the White Squall borrered five hundred dollars of the old man (that was Colonel Shelly, you know), and the old man told me to be sure and get it of him before he sailed. While I was in the city I got a letter from the cap'n stating that if I would send for the money to-night, I could have it; so I want you and Bob to take Rowe and go and get it. I'll give him an order for it. Be lively, for there'll be a gale on in an hour or so.' That was what Willis said to me and Bob; and although we didn't much like the idee of going aboard the White Squall, knowing what sort of a chap Cap'n Jack was, we told him we'd go, like a couple of fools. 'All right,' says he. 'You get the boat ready, and I'll go and tell Rowe to hurry up. But mind, you mustn't say one word to him where you're going. If you do, he'll stay ashore and I won't get that money.' And then what does that old scamp do," exclaimed Tony, with rising indignation, "but run up to the house and write this here letter to Cap'n Jack, telling him that here was three men for him, and he'd best take us along without asking no questions." "Then he came into the room where I was and told me a funny story, too," said Roy, who was listening with all his ears. "I should like to know who came in with him, and what the pair of them would have done if I had not awakened just as I did." "I guess it was Benny," said Bob; and he guessed right. "Them two is both tarred with the same stick." Benny was ashore, as I told you, and by the merest chance met the detective Babcock, who made a clean breast of the whole business; whereupon Benny hired a tug, and started for home. By the time he got there he was as frightened as was his father, whom he met setting out for Tony's house. "You needn't waste words with me," said the dutiful son, the minute he saw that his sire was about to begin a lengthy explanation. "I saw Bab, and he told me all about it. You are a pretty pair, I must say. Who is this chap who looks so much like Rowe, and what are you going to do with him?" "His name is Roy Sheldon, and he is a Mount Airy wheelman," replied Willis. "I am going to send him to sea on the White Squall." "The very plan I had in my own head," said Benny, approvingly. "Who's going to take him there?" "I thought of asking Tony and Bob. I'll offer--" "Don't offer them a cent," interrupted Benny. "Tell them to go and get five hundred dollars that Cap'n Jack borrowed of the old man, and send this wheelman along as Rowe Shelly, to get it. Understand?" No; the superintendent did not quite grasp his son's meaning, and he was afraid Roy might not be willing to personate Rowe Shelly. It took Benny a long time to explain, but he succeeded at last, and then he asked his father if there was not some way in which he could get a glimpse of Roy so that he could satisfy himself that a mistake had been made. This was the way he came to be introduced into the presence of the young wheelman, who was fast asleep. The moment Benny's eyes rested upon the boy's face he knew he had never seen him before. "You've done it as sure as the world," said he, in a savage whisper. "Get rid of him. Send him to the White Squall, and have Tony and Bob shanghaied at the same time, or they will get you into deeper trouble. Wake him up, tell him you have found out who he is, and say that you're going to send him back to his friends. In that way you can get him off without any fuss, and--" Just then Roy stirred in his sleep, and Benny took to his heels, barely having time to close the door behind him before the boy was wide-awake. CHAPTER XVIII. CONCLUSION. "Benny is old man Willis's son," Tony hastened to explain. "If you was to shake 'em both up in a hat, it is hard to tell which one of 'em would come out first for meanness. That's our story, sir. You know what happened after we got aboard the White Squall." "What did Willis mean when he called you off on one side saying that he had an order for you?" inquired Roy. "Did he want me to believe that he was about to send you to the city for goods?" "I don't know what he meant you should believe; he jest wanted to give me a few parting instructions. He said you didn't much like the idee of going out in that wind, and that if you raised a fuss about it after we got started, we must quiet you by saying that we dassent turn around for fear of a capsize. He said, furder, that we mustn't talk to you more'n we could help, for you'd kick if you found you was going aboard the White Squall. He said you had the order for the money in your pocket, and what was writ on the paper he give me was meant to hurry Cap'n Jack up, so't we could get back to the island before the wind riz any higher. But t'wasn't no such thing," continued Tony, wrathfully. "It told Cap'n Jack to take us to sea and say nothing about it." "And were you stupid enough to believe that our friend Roy was Rowe Shelly? You stood within arm's-length of him, and it looks to me as if you ought to have seen at a glance that it wasn't any one you knew," said Arthur, forgetting that he had once stood within less than arm's-length of Rowe Shelly, and never suspected that he wasn't Roy Sheldon until he had come pretty near being thrown on his head. "We never knew the difference," said Tony, earnestly, "for the reason that we didn't know there was anything wrong. We knew Rowe had run away, and as me and Bob supposed that he had been ketched and brung back, like he was before, we didn't ask no questions. Of course we thought it was Rowe that we were going to take off to the ship after that money, and why should we not? How could we tell one from t'other when the night was so dark, and they were both dressed alike and the wind blowed so loud that we couldn't re_cog_nize his voice?" "What did you think when you saw him jump into the harbor?" inquired Joe. "Well, sir, we was scared to death, and there isn't no manner of sense in saying we wasn't. We wouldn't never dared to show our faces in New London again if I hadn't found this letter, 'cause we'd been afraid that we might be tooken up for trying to make way with Rowe, though Lord knows we wouldn't a raised a finger against him. What's writ onto this here paper will clear us, won't it, sir?" "I think it will; but if you need any more evidence, drop a line to me. I will give you my address," said Roy. "What made you back away from me when I got off my wheel and walked toward you? Did you think I was a ghost?" "I ain't quite sure that there is such things as ghosts in the world," replied Tony, "though in my time I've talked to more'n one who has seen 'em; but wouldn't you feel kinder oneasy under them circumstances? We took you aboard the ship a purpose, like we told you, but we didn't do it to get you used like you was." "Then you knew that ship was the White Squall, and that she was not going into the harbor for shelter?" said Joe. "Course we did, sir. What would any craft want to run from a fair sailing wind like that for? We knew she was going to sea, and was in a hurry to get you aboard so't you could get the money we thought you wanted. We thought it kinder queer 'cause you didn't give the cap'n the order when I give him the letter, but we didn't mistrust anything till we seen you go overboard. Of course we knew before that, that we had all been shanghaied; but what I mean is, that we never mistrusted till then that mebbe you wasn't Rowe Shelly. We didn't think he'd have the pluck to jump overboard, for he isn't much of a boy for going a swimming. When we was running into Plymouth some of them Bethel fellers flung a lot of papers aboard of us, and me and Bob happened to get hold of one that told us all about it, only it didn't say anything about Rowe Shelly. Ain't your name Peter Smith?" "Not much," replied Roy, with a laugh. "But I am the fellow who jumped overboard, all the same. Now, what induced you two to tramp back to New London instead of shipping on some vessel that would take you there?" "There are two reasons for it," answered Tony. "In the first place, there wasn't no ship in port that was going where we wanted to go; and in the next, we've had enough of the water and thought we'd like to stay on shore for a spell. You see, we ain't by no means as young as we used to be, and can't stand the hard knocks as well. We never got a blow after we was drove for'ard that night, 'cause we know what a sailor man's duty is and we done it; but them was a rough lot of officers, I tell you. Do you know where Rowe Shelly is now?" "I am sorry to say we don't," replied Arthur. "We hoped to hear from him before this time, but if he has written us, the letter hasn't caught up with us. But we can tell you one thing: when you get back to the island you'll not find matters as they were when you left. My two friends here saw Rowe, mistook him for me just as Willis and Babcock mistook me for Rowe, had a long talk with him, and put some ideas into his head. Colonel Shelly will have to give up Rowe's money and get out of that--you'll see; and if Captain Shelly is still alive, he will come to that island and take possession." Joe Wayring and his friends spent the best part of the afternoon in Tony's company and Bob's, and did not take leave of them until they had learned as much of Rowe Shelly's history as the men were able to tell them. They also asked after Captain Jack; but that worthy and his mates had disappeared the moment the Sarah West had reached the wharf at Plymouth, and Tony could not say where they were. No doubt they had gone to New London on the cars, while the foremast hands, having no money at their command, had to ship again as soon as they could, or turn tramps for a season as Tony and Bob had done. Roy gave them his address, advised them to use all the means in their power to open communication with Rowe when they reached the city, and stand by to aid him in getting his rights; and then he and his friends shared their small stock of money with them, and once more turned their faces toward Mount Airy. "Didn't I tell you that you were taken aboard the White Squall on purpose?" said Joe, as they shot around the first bend in the road and left the sailors out of sight. "I guess you are willing to believe it now." "And I think you are equally willing to believe that I was right when I said that Tony and Bob were shanghaied the same as I was," retorted Roy. "That man Willis is a schemer from way back. I shall always think that the easiest way for him to get out of his difficulty would have been to send me ashore, as I thought he was going to do. I never would have made him trouble, for up to the time I was sent aboard that ship I was treated as well as I wanted to be." "I think Willis was afraid he would lose his situation if he told the colonel that he had made a mistake, captured the wrong boy, and given Rowe a chance to get away," said Arthur. "I don't see why he should be, for if I understand the situation, his employer would not dare discharge him," continued Roy. "For some reason or other Willis made up his mind that the only thing he could do was to get rid of me; he was afraid to hire Tony and Bob to take me aboard that ship and leave me there, for that would give them a hold upon him; so he thought the best way was to get rid of the whole of us in a lump. I will say this much for Willis: he came pretty near doing it. I felt tolerable mad at Tony and Bob when you fellows suggested that they had been hired to have me kidnapped, and here I've gone and divided my last dollar with them." "And we felt just as angry at Rowe for getting you into a scrape, and yet we are ready to stand by him," said Joe. "On the whole, I am satisfied with what we have done on this trip." I thought he had reason to be. There was no one along the route who knew what Joe had done to avert that railroad disaster, but the folks at home had been posted before this time. On the day they left Plymouth Arthur and Roy mailed the full details of Joe's "Wild Ride," but the latter knew nothing of it until a week had passed, and they stopped for the night at a railway station where they found their trunks and a package of mail waiting for them. When Joe glanced at his mother's letter beginning: "My dear boy, how could you do it? I am frightened every time I think of it," and the first line of Uncle Joe's, which ran: "I am proud of my brave namesake. You have covered yourself with glory enough for one summer, and had better come home and relieve your mother's anxiety," he knew just what had been going on, and congratulated himself on having escaped return orders until his face was toward Mount Airy. All he said to his friends was: "You fellows spread ink a trifle too freely while we were in Plymouth. If I had suspected it, I would have dropped the pair of you over the end of the pier like a couple of kittens." "Perhaps that wouldn't have been so easy, either," replied Arthur. "More than twenty days' steady wheeling has brought us a tolerable muscle, I want you to remember. But what's the odds? It was bound to come out, and Roy and I kept still about it until we were homeward bound. When you write all you've got to do is to tell Uncle Joe we're coming." Joe wrote that very night, and his letter contained a complete history of Roy's doings in New London harbor, and told how Arthur had come near getting them into serious trouble by shooting Matt Coyle's watch-dogs. He omitted nothing, and when he finished, he flattered himself that he had described the thing in language so graphic that Roy and Arthur would be invited to expedite their return. The next time they came up with their letters, they also found papers containing some surprising as well as gratifying intelligence. Every man in the Buster band, including Matt Coyle and his gang of train-wreckers, had been arrested and put under lock and key. Acting upon the advice given him by the young wheelmen, Mr. Holmes had gone to New London and identified his property; that is, the implements that had been used to force that big rock from its bed and roll it upon the track. It was by his suggestion (which in the first place came from one of our three friends, as you will remember) that a couple of officers, disguised as tramp hunters, came to Glen's Falls and proceeded to "spot" every man they wanted. More strange tramps came in at intervals, and when the officers, for that was what they really were, were nearly equal in number to the law-breakers, they "corralled the whole business and ran them in." To quote from Roy Sheldon, who was so highly excited that he wanted to yell, it was a "pretty slick scheme," and by the time Matt was through serving the sentence that would surely be passed upon him, they would no longer stand in any fear of him, for they would be big enough to punch his head if he didn't let them alone. "But I am really afraid our friend Bigden will see fun now," said Roy, in conclusion. "If Matt gets half a chance he will tell all he knows." "I don't believe the things he did in the Indian Lake country will be brought against him," said Joe. "He'll come in for trying to wreck the train; and by the time he has been punished for that, he won't want to get into any more scrapes." "And where will we come in? Look here, Bub," exclaimed Roy, shaking his finger at Joe. "When you took that unworthy revenge upon Art and me, and told your mother what we have done and suffered since we have been on the road, you told her that we laid in the bushes and heard all Matt and his fellow rascals had to say, didn't you? I thought as much. Well, _that_ will be sure to come out, with all the rest of the things, and the last one of us will be _subpoenaed_. If any one of us spread ink too freely, you are the man." "I didn't see Matt that night," protested Joe, "for it was so dark I couldn't see anybody." "No matter, you heard his voice. You will be called upon to tell how you knew it was his voice, and all that, and the first thing you know there'll be something wormed out of you that you don't mean to tell." Joe Wayring did not like to think about that, but still he did not eat or sleep any the less for fear of it. He enjoyed the homeward run and so did his friends, for they had done what they set out to do, and more too. They stopped for one night at the Lafayette House, and spent the evening at the Academy of Music; but there was no detective waiting to take one of them by the arm when they came out, and neither did they meet any one who could give them any information concerning Rowe Shelly. They sent a despatch to their parents, telling where they were, and when they would be home, and the result was that about three miles out of Mount Airy they found a delegation of wheelmen waiting for them. Of course the drug-store crowd was not represented, but Tom Bigden and his cousins were there. Joe thought he knew what Tom had come for, and was made sure of it when Tom ranged alongside of him, after a short halt had been made and the hand-shaking was over, and in a roundabout way began making inquiries concerning Matt Coyle. Joe was sorry he couldn't tell much about him, but he said enough to set Tom's fears at rest. He declared--not as if he thought Tom had the least interest in the matter, but merely as an item of news--that he would not prosecute Matt for stealing his canoe or tying him to a tree, because he would have enough to answer for when he was brought up for putting that rock on the railroad track. Joe was not revengeful, but he did want to see the squatter punished for that. It is hardly necessary to add that Tom Bigden breathed easier after his talk with Joe, and when he left the latter at his gate and told him he was glad he and his friends had had an enjoyable run and come safely home, in spite of everybody and everything that had tried to hinder them, the words came from his heart. Tom had been on nettles ever since he read in the papers that Matt was still alive, and in a fair way to be brought to justice, and although he felt relieved, he knew he would not sleep soundly until Matt's trial was over and prison doors had closed upon him. "Six hundred and forty-two miles in thirty-five days," said Joe, when he had kissed his mother and shaken hands with every one who was on the back porch. "A little over eighteen miles a day. That wouldn't be anything to brag of if the roads had been good all the way; but when you take the mountains and long patches of sand into consideration--" "And Matt Coyle and the train-wreckers," added Uncle Joe. "They didn't delay us any to speak of," replied the young wheelman, "but that Roy Sheldon, with his black eyes and lame arm, did. Well, I'm glad to get back, and why don't you say you are glad to see me?" Every one of them had said so more than once, for I had heard them, and besides, they showed it very plainly by their actions. Everybody in town was glad to see him, and he had so much visiting to do that for a time I was entirely neglected. One morning I had a chance to say "hello!" to the Canvas Canoe and Fly-rod as they were carried across the porch and down the path that led to the lake, and when they returned at dark I exchanged a few words with them before they were taken up-stairs. In as few words as possible I told them where I had been and what I had seen during my long absence, and in return Fly-rod told me that he had that day seen two old acquaintances; or as he expressed it, "the whole of one and a part of the other." "In the show-case in which I stood before Joe Wayring bought me, were a couple of high-priced lads, a split-bamboo and a double-barrel shot-gun, who wouldn't say a civil word to me because I was worth only six dollars and a half," said Fly-rod, with a ring of triumph in his tones. "The gun was purchased by a dude who went into the woods because it was fashionable, and the bamboo became the property of one of the handsomest little girls you ever saw. Well, I saw that rod to-day lying flat in the mud, while his owner was paddling in the water with bare feet. He was rusted all over where there was any thing to rust, and you could see daylight between his ribs where they had been glued together. He was ashamed to speak to me, for he had boasted that he was going to Canada to do battle with the lordly salmon. A little while afterward we heard a booming up the lake and saw a commotion in a boat whose crew were engaged in shooting wood-ducks. The Canvas Canoe took us up there in a hurry, and we found that a gun had burst in the hands of one of the party--the very dude who bought that double-barrel shot-gun. There wasn't much left of the gun, nothing but the stock and locks, in fact, but I knew him. The dude wasn't hurt, for a wonder, but he was mad, and the minute he recovered from the fright into which he had been thrown, he grabbed the wreck of that gun and sent it as far as he could into the bushes. Here _I_ am, sound as a dollar, thanks to the good treatment I have received, supple as ever and ready to catch another black bass any time I am called upon." The next thing that interested me was hearing a letter from Rowe Shelly read on the porch. He hadn't written before for the very good reason that he had nothing to say; and although he had plenty now, he had no time to say it, for he was going after his father and mother who were alive and well, but poor owing to ill health. He went into hiding, as Joe said he did, and found a lawyer to interest himself in his case; but although the latter went to work very quietly, Colonel Shelly and Willis and Benny had taken the alarm and cleared out. His parents had been advertised for and found, and Rowe was going to them by the first train. He would have more to tell them in his next letter, and wanted them, one and all, to get ready to visit him the minute he sent them word. He owed them everything he had, or was going to have, and they would see that he wasn't the boy to forget such things. And neither did Roy Sheldon forget those men on the light-ship. Of course they did nothing more than their duty when they pulled Roy out of the water and took care of him, but that did not lessen the boy's gratitude nor his father's, either. Mr. Sheldon made it his business to drop into a bank shortly after Roy came home, and when he left it those old sea dogs had a handsome sum of money to draw on, though they were advised to let it accumulate so that they would have something to fall back upon when they became too old to attend to the light-ship. Before I went into winter quarters I had the satisfaction of knowing that everything had turned out just as Joe Wayring and his friends wished. Rowe Shelly found his parents and easily established their identity, with his lawyer's help, and the rascally guardian, as well as those who aided him in keeping the boy out of his rights, were overhauled before they had left the city many miles behind; but they were not brought to trial. They simply surrendered their ill-gotten gains, Captain Shelly took quiet possession of his island home, and that was the end of the matter so far as they were concerned; but the gossips had something to talk about for weeks afterward. Joe Wayring and his friends were not needed when Matt Coyle was brought before the court in Bloomingdale, for those tramp detectives had all the evidence they wanted to send him and his gang to prison. Then Tom Bigden felt safe, and I hope he has turned over a new leaf as he has often promised to do. Although every one in Mount Airy heard of the things that George Prime threw up to him, there were few who believed them, thanks to the way Joe and his chums stuck to him through thick and thin. A few days ago Rowe Shelly wrote that he was ready and waiting for Joe and the "rest of his crowd," and the sooner they came to see him the better he would like it. They will accept the invitation for the coming holidays; and if I am any judge of boys' tastes they will find few topics of conversation that will be of more interest to them than the incidents I have attempted to describe in my story, and which happened during THE RAMBLES OF A BICYCLE. THE END. FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS. GUNBOAT SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 6 vols. 12mo. Frank the Young Naturalist. Frank in the Woods. Frank on the Lower Mississippi. Frank on a Gunboat. Frank before Vicksburg. Frank on the Prairie. ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth. Frank among the Rancheros. Frank in the Mountains. Frank at Don Carlos' Ranch. SPORTSMAN'S CLUB SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth. The Sportsman's Club in the Saddle. The Sportsman's Club Afloat. The Sportsman's Club among the Trappers. FRANK NELSON SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth. Snowed Up. Frank in the Forecastle. The Boy Traders. BOY TRAPPER SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth. The Buried Treasure. The Boy Trapper. The Mail-Carrier. ROUGHING IT SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth. George in Camp. George at the Wheel. George at the Fort. ROD AND GUN SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth. Don Gordon's Shooting Box. The Young Wild Fowlers. Rod and Gun Club. GO-AHEAD SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth. Tom Newcombe. Go-Ahead. No Moss. FOREST AND STREAM SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth. Joe Wayring. Snagged and Sunk. Steel Horse. WAR SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 5 vols. 12mo. Cloth. True to his Colors. Rodney the Overseer. Marcy the Refugee. Rodney the Partisan. Marcy the Blockade-Runner. _Other Volumes in Preparation._ Copyright, 1888 by Porter & Coates. FAMOUS STANDARD JUVENILE LIBRARIES. ANY VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY AT $1.00 PER VOLUME (Except the Sportsman's Club Series, Frank Nelson Series and Jack Hazard Series.). Each Volume Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. HORATIO ALGER, JR. The enormous sales of the books of Horatio Alger, Jr., show the greatness of his popularity among the boys, and prove that he is one of their most favored writers. I am told that more than half a million copies altogether have been sold, and that all the large circulating libraries in the country have several complete sets, of which only two or three volumes are ever on the shelves at one time. If this is true, what thousands and thousands of boys have read and are reading Mr. Alger's books! His peculiar style of stories, often imitated but never equaled, have taken a hold upon the young people, and, despite their similarity, are eagerly read as soon as they appear. Mr. Alger became famous with the publication of that undying book, "Ragged Dick, or Street Life in New York." It was his first book for young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to that kind of writing. It was a new and fertile field for a writer then, and Mr. Alger's treatment of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. "Ragged Dick" first appeared in 1868, and ever since then it has been selling steadily, until now it is estimated that about 200,000 copies of the series have been sold. --_Pleasant Hours for Boys and Girls._ 
32795	----	THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS [Illustration: "_Now state your problem_"] THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN AUTHOR OF "THE LEAVENWORTH CASE," "THE MILLIONAIRE BABY," "THE MAYOR'S WIFE," "THE FILIGREE BALL," ETC., ETC. BOSTON RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS 1910 Copyright, 1909, by Richard G. Badger Copyright, 1908 and 1909, by the Crowell Publishing Company All Rights Reserved The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I "Do you know what would happen to him" 9 II "Thousands in that safe" 17 III "How does it stand" 23 IV "Stenographers must be counted" 29 V "I've business with him" 35 VI "If I could tell you his story" 43 VII "I'm sure that I can get them for you" 51 VIII "I did as you bid me" 59 IX "'The safe door is opened,' I cried" 67 X "I have a scheme" 75 XI "She will go in" 81 XII "A block of steel" 89 XIII "I am from headquarters" 95 XIV "You do not answer" 103 XV "Now, if Fellows will stay away" 111 XVI "It was not paper I meant to have" 121 XVII "Now for my part of the bargain" 129 XVIII "What have you done among you" 139 XIX "So that was your motive" 147 XX "A jewel of far greater value" 155 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS OPPOSITE PAGE "Now state your problem" Frontis "He transferred his attention to the door" 38 "Grace, you have misunderstood me" 48 "An old man was looking up at the face of a young girl" 80 "She was ignorant of his presence" 100 "The door opened and Philip Andrews came in" 144 "'R. S. T.,' read the official" 152 "He was even present at the wedding" 158 THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS CHAPTER I "_Do you know what would happen to him?_" "Now state your problem." The man who was thus addressed shifted uneasily on the long bench which he and his companion bestrode. He was facing the speaker, and though very little light sifted through the cobweb-covered window high over their heads, he realized that what there was fell on his features, and he was not sure of his features, or of what effect their expression might have on the other man. "Are you sure we are quite alone in this big, desolate place?" he asked. It seemed a needless question. Though it was broad daylight outside and they were in the very heart of the most populated district of lower New York, they could not have been more isolated had the surrounding walls been those of some old ruin in the heart of an untraversed desert. A short description of the place will explain this. They were in the forsaken old church not far from Avenue A----, a building long given over to desolation, and empty of everything but débris and one or two broken stalls, which for some inscrutable reason--possibly from some latent instinct of inherited reverence--had not yet been converted into junk and sold to the old clothes men by the rapacious denizens of the surrounding tenements. Perhaps you remember this building; perhaps some echo of the bygone and romantic has come to you as you passed its decaying walls once dedicated to worship, but soulless now and only distinguishable from the five-story tenements pressing up on either side, by its one high window in which some bits of colored glass still lingered amid its twisted and battered network. You may remember the building and you may remember the stray glimpses afforded you through the arched opening in the lower story of one of the adjacent tenements, of the churchyard in its rear with its chipped and tumbling head-*stones just showing here and there above the accumulated litter. But it is not probable that you have any recollections of the interior of the church itself, shut as it has been from the eye of the public for nearly a generation. And it is with the interior we have to do--a great hollow vault where once altar and priest confronted a reverent congregation. There is no altar here now, nor any chancel; hardly any floor. The timbers which held the pews have rotted and fallen away, and what was once a cellar has received all this rubbish and held it piled up in mounds which have blocked up most of the windows and robbed the place even of the dim religious light which was once its glory, so that when the man whose words we have just quoted asked if they were quite alone and peered into the dim, belumbered corners, it was but natural for his hardy, resolute, and unscrupulous companion to snort with impatience and disgust as he answered: "Would I have brought you here if I hadn't known it was the safest place in New York for this kind of talk? Why, man, there may be in this city five men all told, who know the trick of the door I unfastened for you, and not one of them is a cop. You may take my word for that. Besides----" "But the kids? They're everywhere; and if one of them should have followed us----" "Do you know what would happen to him? I'll tell you a story--no, I won't; you're frightened enough already. But there's no kid here, nor any one else but our two selves, unless it be some wandering spook from the congregations laid outside; and spooks don't count. So out with your proposition, Mr. Fellows. I----" CHAPTER II "_Thousands in that safe_" "No names!" hoarsely interrupted the other. "If you speak my name again I'll give the whole thing up." "No you won't; you're too deep in it for that. But I'll drop the Fellows and just call you Sam. If that's too familiar, we'll drop the job. I'm not so keen on it." "You will be. It's right in your line." Sam Fellows, as he was called, was whispering now--a hot, eager whisper, breathing of guilt and desperation. "If I could do it alone--but I haven't the wit--the----" "Experience," dryly put in the other. "Well, well!" he exclaimed impatiently, as Fellows crept nearer, but said nothing. "I'm going to speak, but--Well, then, here's how it is!" he suddenly conceded, warned by the other's eye. "The building is a twenty-story one, chuck full and alive with business. The room I mean is on the twelfth floor; it is one of five, all communicating, and all in constant use except the one holding the safe. And that is visited constantly. Some one is always going in and out. Indeed, it is a rule of the firm that every one of the employees must go into that room once, at least, during the day, and remain there for five minutes alone. I do it; every one does it; it's a very mysterious proceeding which only a crank like my employer would devise." "What do you do there?" "Nothing. I'm speaking now for myself. The others--some of the others--_one_ of the others may open the safe. That's what I believe, that's what I want to know about and _how it's done_. There are thousands in that safe, and the old man being away----" "Yes, this is all very interesting. Go on. What you want is an artist with a jimmy." "No, no. It's no such job as that. I want to know the person, the trusted person who has all those securities within touch. It's a mania with me. I should have been the man. I'm--I'm _manager_." The hoarseness with which this word was uttered, the instinct of shame which made his eyes fall as it struggled from his lips, wakened a curious little gleam of hardy cynicism in the steady gaze of his listener. "Oh, you're manager, are you!" came in slow retort, filling a silence that had more of pain than pleasure in it. "Well, manager, your story is very interesting, but by no means complete. Suppose you hurry on to the next instalment." Cringing as from a blow, Fellows took up his tale, no longer creeping nearer his would-be confederate, but, if anything, edging away. CHAPTER III "_How does it stand_" "I've watched and watched and watched," said he, "but I can't pick out the man. Letters come, orders are given, and those orders are carried out, but _not by me_. I'm speaking now of investments, or the payment of large sums; anything which calls for the opening of that safe where the old man has stuffed away his thousands. Small matters fall to my share. There is another safe, of which I hold the combination. Child's play, but the other! It would make both of us independent, and yet leave something for appearances. But it can't be worked. It stands in front of a glass door from which the curtain is drawn every night. Every passerby can look in. If it is opened it must be done in broad daylight and by the person whom the old man trusts. By that means only would I get my revenge, and revenge is what I want. He don't trust me, _me_ who have been with him for seven years and----" "Drop that, it isn't interesting. The facts are what I want. What kind of safe is it?" "The strangest you ever saw. I don't know who made it. There's nothing on it to show. Nor is there a lock or combination. But it opens. You can just see the outline of a door. Steel--fine steel, and not so very large, but the contents----" "We'll take its contents for granted. How does it stand? On a platform?" "Yes, one foot from the floor. The platform runs all the way across the room and holds other things; a table which nobody uses, a revolving bookcase and a series of shelves, fitted with boxes containing old receipts and such junk. Sometimes I go through these; but nothing ever comes of it." He paused, as if the subject were distasteful. "And the safe is opened?" "Almost every week. I'm ashamed to tell you the old duffer's methods; they're loony. But he isn't a lunatic. At any rate, they don't think so in Wall Street." "I'll make a guess at his name." "Not yet. You'll have to swear----" "Oh, we're both in it. Never mind the heroics. It's too good a thing to peach on. Me and the manager! I like that. Take it easy till the job's done, anyway. And now I'll take a fly at the name. It's----" He had the grace to whisper. CHAPTER IV "_Stenographers must be counted_" Young Fellows squirmed and turned a shade paler, if one could trust the sickly violet ray that shot down from the once exquisitely colored window high up over their heads. "Hush!" he muttered; and the other grinned. Evidently the guess was a correct one. "No, he's no lunatic," the professional quietly declared. "But he has queer ways. Which of his queers do you object to?" "When his letters come, or more often his cablegrams, they are opened by me and then put in plain view on a certain little bulletin board in the main office. These are his orders. Any one who knows the cipher can read them. I don't know the cipher. At night I take them down, number them, and file them away. They have served their purpose. They have been seen by the person whose business it is to carry out his instructions, and the rest you must guess. His brokers know the secret, but it is never discussed by us. The least word and the next cablegram would read in good plain English, 'Fire him!' I've had that experience. I've had to fire three since he went away two months ago." "That's good." "Why good?" "That cuts out three from your list. _The person is not among the ones dismissed._" "That's so." New life seemed to spring up in Fellows. "You'll do the job," he cried. "Somehow, I never thought of going about it that way. And I know another man that's out." "Who?" "Myself, for one. There are only seven more." "Counting all?" "All." "Stenographers included?" "Oh, stenographers!" "Stenographers must be counted." "Well, then, seven men and one woman. Our stenographer is a woman." "What kind of a woman?" "A young girl. Ordinary, but good enough. I've never noticed her very much." "Tell me about the men." "What's the use? You wouldn't take my word. They're a cheap lot, beneath contempt in my estimation. There's not one of them clever enough for the business. Jack Forbush comes the nearest to it, and probably is the one. The way he keeps his eye on me makes me suspect him. Or is he, too, playing my game?" "How can I tell? How can I tell anything from what you say? I'll have to look into the matter myself. Give me the names and addresses and I'll look the parties up. Get their rating, so to speak. Leave it to me, and I'll land the old man's confidential clerk." "Here's the list. I thought you might want it." "Where's the girl's name?" "The girl! Oh, pshaw!" "Put her name down just the same." "There, then. Grace Lee. Address, 74 East ---- Street. And now swear on the honor of a gentleman----" Beau Johnson pulled the rim of Fellows's hat over his eyes to suggest what he thought of this demand. CHAPTER V "_I've business with him_" Next day there appeared at the offices of Thomas Stoughton, in Nassau Street, a trim, well-looking man, who had urgent business with Mr. Fellows, the manager. He was kept waiting for some time before being introduced into that gentleman's private room; but this did not seem to disturb him. There was plenty to look at, or so he seemed to think, and his keen, noncommittal eyes flashed hither and thither and from face to face with restless activity. He seemed particularly interested in the bookkeeper of the establishment, but it was an interest which did not last long, and when a neat, pleasant-faced young woman rose from her seat and passed rapidly across the room, it was upon her his eyes settled and remained fixed, with a growing attention, until a certain door closed upon her with a sound like a snapping lock. Then he transferred his attention to the door, and was still gazing at it when a boy summoned him to the manager's office. He went in with reluctance. He had rather have watched that door. But he had questions to ask, and so made a virtue of necessity. Mr. Fellows was not pleased to see him. He started quite guiltily from his seat and only sat again on compulsion--the compulsion of his visitor's steady and quelling eye. "I've business with you, Mr. Fellows." Then, the boy being gone, "Which is the room? The one opening out of the general office directly opposite this?" [Illustration: "_He transferred his attention to the door_"] Mr. Fellows nodded. "I have just seen one of the employees go in there. I should like to see that person come out. Do you mind talking with this door open? I know enough about banking to hold up my end of the conversation." Fellows rose with a jerk and pushed the door back. His visitor smiled easily and launched into a discussion about stocks and bonds interspersed with a few assertions and questions not meant for the general ear, as: "_It's the girl who is in there. Not ordinary, by any means. Just the sort an old smudge like Stoughton would be apt to trust. Now what's that?_" "_Singing. She often sings. I've forbidden it, but she forgets, she says_," answered Fellows. "_Pretty good music. Listen to that note. High as a prima donna's. Does she sing at her work?_" "_No; I'd fire her if she did. It's only when she's walking about or when_----" "_She's in that room?_" "_Yes_." "At par? I buy nothing at par. _There! She's coming. I wish I dared intercept her, rifle her pockets. Do you know if she has pockets?_" "_No; how should I?_" "_Fellows, you're not worth your salt. Ah! there's a face for you, and I can read it like a book. Did a letter or cablegram come to-day?_" "_Yes; didn't you see it? Hung up in the outer office_." "_I thought I saw something_. Ninety-five? That's a quotation worth listening to. Three at ninety-five. _That girl's a trump. I will see more of my lady._" Here he took care to shut the door. "I've been the rounds, Fellows. Private-detective work and all that. She is the only puzzler among the group. You'll hear from me again; meanwhile treat the girl well. Don't spring any traps; leave that to me." And Fellows, panting with excitement, promised, muttering under his breath: "A woman! That's even worse than I thought. But we'll make the old fellow pay for it. Those securities are ours. I already feel them in my hand." The sinister twitch which marred the other's mouth emphasized the assertion in a way Grace Lee's friends would have trembled to see. CHAPTER VI "_If I could tell you his story_" That evening a young woman and a young man sat on one of the benches in Central Park. They were holding hands, but modestly and with a clinging affection. No one appeared in sight; they had the moon-light, the fragrance of the spring foliage, and their true love all to themselves. The woman was Grace, the young man was Philip Andrews, a candid-eyed, whole-hearted fellow whom any girl might be proud to be seen with, much more to be engaged to. Grace was proud, but she was more than that; her heart was all involved in her hope--a good heart which he was equally proud to have won. Yet while love was theirs and the surroundings breathed peace and joy, they did not look quite happy. A cloud was on his brow and something like a tear in her eye as she spoke gently but with rare firmness. "Philip, we must wait. One love does not put out another. I cannot leave my old father now. He is too feeble and much too dependent on me. Philip, you do not know my father. You have seen him, it is true, many, many times. You have talked with him and even have nursed him at odd moments, when I had to be out of the room getting supper or supplying some of his many wants. Yet you do not know him." "I know that he is intelligent." "Yes, yes, that is evident. Any one can see that. And you can see, too, that he is frequently fretful and exacting, as all old people are. But the qualities he shows me--his strong, melancholy, but devoted nature, quickened by an unusually unhappy life--that you do not see and cannot, much as you like him and much as he likes you. Only the child who has surprised him at odd moments, when he thought himself quite alone, wringing his hands and weeping over some intolerable memory--who has listened in the dead of night to his smothered but heart-breaking groans, can know either his suffering or the one joy which palliates it. If I could tell you his story--but that would be treason to one whose rights I am bound to reverence. You will respect my silence, but you must also take my word that he needs and has a right to all the pleasure and all the hope my love can give him. I cannot be with him much; my work forbids, but the little time I have is his, except on rare occasions like this, and he knows it and is satisfied. Were I married----. But you will wait, Philip. It may not be long--he grows weaker every day. Besides, you are not ready yet yourself. You are doing wonderfully well, but a year's freedom will help you materially, as it will me. Every day is adding to our store; in a year we may be almost independent." "Grace, you have misunderstood me. I said that I was no good without you, that I needed your presence to make a man of me, but I did not mean that you were to share my fortunes now. I would not ask that. I would be a fool or worse, for, Grace, I'm not doing so well as you think. While I knew that my present employment was for a specified time, I had hopes of continuing on. But this cannot be. That's what I have to tell you to-night. It looks as if our marriage would have to be postponed indefinitely instead of hastened. And I can't bear it. You don't know what you are to me, or what this disappointment is. I expected to be raised, not dismissed, and if I had had----" [Illustration: "_Grace, you have misunderstood me_"] "What?" The word came very softly, and with rare tenderness. It made him turn and look at her sweet, upturned face, with its resources of strength and shy, unfathomable smile. "What?" she asked again, with a closer pressure of her hand. "You must finish all your sentences with _me_." "I'm ashamed." He uttered it breathlessly. "What am I, to say, 'If I had three thousand dollars the Stickney Company would keep me?' I have barely three hundred and those are dedicated to you." CHAPTER VII "_I'm sure that I can get them for you_" "If you had _three thousand_!" She repeated it in surprise and yet with an indescribable air, which to one versed in human nature would have caught the attention and aroused strange inner inquiries. "Does the Stickney Company want money so badly as that?" "That's not it. They have plainly told me that for three thousand dollars and my services they would give me ten thousand dollars' stock interest, but insist that the man who assumes the responsibility of the position must be financially interested as well. But I haven't the money, and without the money my experience appears to them valueless. I despair of getting another situation in these hard times and--Grace, you don't look sorry." "Because--" she paused, and her fine eyes roamed about her jealous of a listener to her secret, but did not pierce the bush which rose up, cloudy with blossoms, a few feet behind their bench--"because it is not impossible for you to hope for those thousands. I think--I am sure that I can get them for you." Her voice had sunk to a whisper, but it was a very clear whisper. Young Andrews looked at her in surprise; there was something besides pleasure in that surprise. "Where?" he asked. She hesitated, and just at that moment the moon slipped behind a cloud. "Where, Grace, can you get three thousand dollars? From Mr. Stoughton? He is generous to you, he pays you well for what you do for him, but I do not think he would give you that amount, nor do I think he would risk it on any venture involving my judgment. I should not like to have you ask him. I should like to rise feeling absolutely independent of Mr. Stoughton." "I never thought of asking him. There is another way. I'd--I'd like to think it over. If your scheme is good--_very_ good, I might be brought to aid you in the way my mind suggests. But I should want to be sure." She was not looking at him now. If she had been, she might have been startled at his expression. Nor could he see her face; she had turned it aside. "Grace," he prayed, "don't do anything rash. You handle so much money that three thousand dollars may seem very little to you. But it's a goodly sum to get or to replace if one loses it. You must not borrow----" "I will not borrow." "Nor raise it in any way without telling me the sacrifice you must make to obtain it. But it's all a dream; tell me that it's all a dream; you were talking from your wishes, not from any certainty you have. Say so, and I will not be disappointed. I do not want _your_ money; I'd rather go poor and wait till the times change. Don't you see? I'd be more of a man." "But you'd have to take it if I gave it to you, and--perhaps I shall. I want to see you happy, Philip; I must see you happy. I'd be willing to risk a good deal for that. I'm not so happy myself, father suffers so, and the care of it weighs on me. You are all I have to make me glad, and when you are troubled my heart goes down, down. But it's getting late, dear. It's time we went home. Don't ask me what's in my mind, but dream of riches. I'm sure they will come. You shall earn them with the three thousand dollars you want and which I will give you." "I shall earn them honestly," were the last words he said, as they rose from the seat and began to move toward the gate. And the moon, coming out from its temporary eclipse, shone on his clear-cut face as he said this, but not on her bowed head and sidelong look. They were in the shadow. There was something else in the shadow. As they moved away and disappeared in the darkness the long, slim figure of a man rose from behind the bush I have mentioned. He had a sparkling eye and a thin-lipped mouth, and he smiled very curiously as he looked after the pair before turning himself about and going the other way. It was not Fellows; it was his chosen confederate in the nefarious scheme they had planned between them. CHAPTER VIII "_I did as you bid me_" Another meeting in the old church, but this time at night. The somberness of the surroundings was undiminished by any light. They were in absolute darkness. Absolute darkness, but not absolute silence. Noises strange and suggestive, but not of any human agency, whispered, sighed, rattled, and grumbled from far away recesses. The snap of wood, the gnawing of rats, the rustling of bat wings disturbed the ears of one of the guilty pair, till his voice took on unnatural tones as he tried to tell his story to his greedy companion. They were again astride the bench, and their thin faces were so near that their breaths commingled at times; yet Fellows felt at moments so doubtful of all human presence that instinctively his hand would go groping out till it touched the other's arm or breast, when it would fall back again satisfied. He was in a state of absolute terror of the darkness, the oppressive air, the ghostly sounds, and possibly of the image raised by his own conscience, yet he hugged to himself the thought of secrecy which it all involved, and never thought of yielding up his scheme or even shortening his tale, so long as the other listened and gave his mind to the problem which promised them thousands without the usual humdrum method of working for them. We will listen to what he had to say, leaving to your imagination the breaks and guilty starts and moments of intense listening and anxious fear with which he seasoned it. "I did as you bid me," he whispered. "Yesterday fresh orders came from abroad, in cipher, as usual. (It's an unreadable cipher. I've had experts on it many times.) I had hung it up, and though business was heavy, my business, you know, I had eyes for our fair friend, and knew every step she took about the offices. I even knew when her eyes first fell on the cablegram. I had my door open, and I caught her looking up from her work, and what was more, caught the pause in the click-click of the typewriter as she looked and read. If she had not been able to read, the click-click would have gone on, for I believe she could work that typewriter with her eyes shut. But her attention was caught, and she stopped. I tell you I've been humiliated for the last time. I'm in for anything that will make that girl step down and out. What was that!" Muttered curses from his companion brought him back to his story. With a gulp he went on: "You may bet your bottom dollar that I watched her after that, and sure enough, in less than half an hour she had gone into the room where the safe is. Instantly I prepared my _coup d'êtat_. I waited just long enough to hear her voice in that one song she sings, then I jumped from my seat and rushed to the door, shouting, 'Miss Lee! Miss Lee! Your father! Your father!' making hullabaloo enough to raise the dead and scare her out of her wits; for she dotes on that old man and would sell her soul for his sake, I do believe. "Great heavens, it worked! As I live, it worked. I heard her voice fail on that high upper note of hers, and then the sound of her feet staggering, slipping over the floor, and in another moment the fumbling of her hand on the knob and the slow opening of the door which she seemed to have no power to manage. Helping her, I pulled it open, and there beyond her and her white, shocked face, I saw--I saw----" CHAPTER IX "_'The safe door is opened,' I cried_" "Go on! Don't be a fool; that was nothing." "I don't know; it was like a great sigh at my ear. But this is awful! Couldn't we have one spark of light?" "And have the police upon us the next minute? Look up at that window. You can see it, can't you?" "Yes, yes, but very faintly," Fellows whispered. "But you can see it. So could those outside, if we had one glimmer of light in here. No, no, you'll have to stand the dark or quit. But you shan't quit till you've told me what you saw in the room where the safe is." "The safe door opening." His voice trembled so that the other shook him to steady his nerves. "Not opened, mind you, but opening. It was like magic, and I stared so that she forgot her fears and forgot her questions. Turning from me with a startled cry, she looked behind her, and saw what I saw, and tried to push me out. 'I'll come, I'll come,' she whispered. 'Leave me a minute and I'll come.' "But I wasn't going to do that. 'The safe door is opened,' I cried. 'Did you do it?' She didn't know what to say. I have never seen a woman in such a state; then she whispered in awful agitation, 'Yes; I've been given the combination by Mr. Stoughton. I'm duly following his orders. But my father! What about my father? You frightened me so I forgot that--' I waited, staring at her, but she didn't finish. She just asked, 'My father? What has happened to him?' 'Nothing serious,' I managed to say. I wished the old father was in ballyhack. But he'd served his turn; I must say that he'd served his turn. 'A telephone message,' I went on. 'He had had a nervous spell and wanted you. I said that you could go home at noon.' She stood looking at me doubtfully; then her eyes stole back to the safe. 'You will have to leave me here for a few minutes,' she said. 'I have Mr. Stoughton's business to attend to. He will not be pleased at my having given away his secret. He did not wish it known who controlled his affairs in his absence, but now that you do know, you will be doing the right thing to let me go on in the way he has planned for me. His orders must be carried out.' "She is very determined, and understands herself only too well, but I am manager, and I paid her back in her own coin. 'That's all very well,' said I, 'but what proof have I that you are telling me the truth? You have opened the safe--you say you have the combination--but people sometimes surprise a combination and open a safe from other interests than those of their employer. You seem a good girl, but _you are a girl_, and there are men here much more likely to be in Mr. Stoughton's confidence than yourself. With that open safe before us I cannot leave you here alone. What you take from it I must see, and if possible be present at your negotiations. That I consider a manager's duty under the circumstances.' 'Mr. Fellows,' she asked, 'can you read this morning's telegram?' 'No,' I felt bound to reply. 'Then that acquits you. I can.' And again she tried to urge me to go out. But I would not be urged. I was staring across the room at the open safe and in fancy clutching its contents. In fact, I made one step toward them. But she drew herself up with such an air that I paused. She's a big girl, you know, and not to be fooled with when she's angry. 'Come a step farther and I will scream for the watchman,' she whispered. All our talk had been low, for there were listening ears everywhere--we couldn't risk that, and I stepped back. Immediately she saw her advantage, and added, 'If you do not think better of it and leave the room, I'll scream.' For answer to this I said that I----" CHAPTER X "_I have a scheme_" "What?" A yell answered him. "Something hit me! Something hit me!" "Yes, I hit you; and I'll hit you again if you don't go on." Fellows shivered, attempted some puerile protest, balked, and stammeringly obeyed his restless and irritated companion. "I--I said--I wasn't such a fool then as I am now--that she had lied when she told me that she had the combination. There was no combination. The safe did not even have a lock. The door opened with a spring. How had she induced that spring to give way? I demanded to know." "And did she tell you?" "No. She merely repeated, 'I will scream, and that will cause a scandal which will lead to your discharge, not mine.' So--so, I came out." "Blast your eyes! And when did _she_ come out?" "Within five minutes. I watched the clock." "And what did she have?" "Nothing in sight." "I see. A deep game. But I know a deeper. There is no possibility of breaking into that safe by night, undetected by the watchman?" "None; and that watchman is incorruptible. The whole contents of the safe wouldn't move him to connect himself with this job." "The job must be done by day and during office hours?" "Yes." "And cannot be done without the assistance of this girl?" "You've heard." "Very well; I have a scheme. Now listen to me." Not even the rat which at that minute nibbled at Fellows's boot heel could have heard what followed. The panting of two breasts was, however, audible; and when, fifty minutes later, both crawled out of the cellar window among the rubbish which littered the rear of this once holy place, the one was trembling with excitement and the other with fear. They parted at the first thoroughfare, neither having eyes to see nor hearts to appreciate the touching scene which miles away was taking place in a little flat not very far from Harlem. An old man, frail in body, but with a sturdy spirit yet, was looking up from his pillow at the loving face of a young girl who was bending over him. "I cannot sleep to-night," he said to her; "I cannot sleep; but that must not disturb you. I have so many things to think, pleasant things; but you have only cares, and must rest from them. You look very tired to-night, tired and worried. Leave me and sleep. I want to see you bright in the morning." [Illustration: "_An old man was looking up at the loving face of a young girl_"] CHAPTER XI "_She will go in_" The next day there was a dearth of assistants in the office. One was sick, one had pleaded a long-delayed vacation, two had business for the concern which took them into different quarters of the city, and Mr. Beers, who was next in authority to Mr. Fellows, had been summoned to serve on the grand jury. Perhaps it was this knowledge that Mr. Beers would be absent which had led to the manager's easiness in regard to the others. For he had been easy, or so Miss Lee thought when she arrived in the morning and saw the office almost empty. However, it did not trouble her much. On the contrary, the quiet and non-surveillance of the two clerks who did the business of the day seemed rather to elate her, and she went about her work, copying letters and taking down notes with an alacrity and air of cheerful hope which caused the manager to cast toward her more than one suspicious look from his desk in the adjoining room. _He_ was not busy, though he had been the first to arrive that morning; and he had brought with him a large square package which he had taken into the room which held the safe. He pretended to be busy, but any one watching him closely would have noticed that his eyes, and not his hands, were all that were engaged, and they were anywhere but on his desk or the letter he appeared to be reading. An observer would also have noticed that his nervousness was of the extreme sort, and that the trembling which shook his whole body increased visibly whenever his glance fell on the door of Mr. Beers's private room, opening at his back. No one was supposed to be in that room to-day, and had Miss Lee not been one minute late this especial morning, perhaps there might not have been. But in that one minute's grace a man had entered the office who had not gone out again, and where could he be if not in that one closed room? The room which held the safe was open as usual, and many of Mr. Fellows's glances traveled that way. He had entered it once only since his first hurried visit of the early morning, but only to pull down the shade over the glass in the door communicating with the outside hall. This was his usual custom, and it attracted no attention. Why shouldn't he enter it again? He thought he would. A fascination was upon him. The problem he had given Beau Johnson to solve was to receive a test this day which would make him a rich man or a felon; but before that hour why not make his own study, his own investigation? True, he had made these many times before, but not with such lights to guide him. He might learn---- But no, the very conceit was folly. He knew his own limitations, else he had not called in the services of this crook. He could learn nothing by himself, but he might look the place over and see if all was in shape for the great attempt. That was only his duty. Beau Johnson had a right to expect that of him. If the scrub woman had moved anything---- At the thought that this possibly might have happened, he jumped to his feet and hurried into the outer office; but when he turned toward the room of the safe, he met Miss Lee's eye fixed upon him with such a keen, inquiring look that he faltered in his determination, and went in another direction instead. _She_ knew that he had no business in that room, and she also knew that he knew she knew this. Any pretense that he had would only rouse her suspicions, and these must be lulled to the point of security, or she might not enter there herself, and on her entering there everything depended. Almost immediately upon the thought he was back in his seat, and the weary moments crept on. Would she never make her accustomed visit to that room? No cablegram had come that morning, but she would find some reason for going in. Of that he had been assured by Johnson. Why, he had not been told. "She will go in," Beau Johnson had said, and Fellows believed him. He believed everything the other said, otherwise he could not have gone on with this business. But she was very long about it. Harlowe would be coming back---- CHAPTER XII "_A block of steel_" Ah, he had an idea! It was not his own, but for the moment he thought it was. He would leave the office himself and thus give her an opportunity to quit her work and shut herself up with the safe. But--(was his mind leaving him?) there was something to be done first. The way must be cleared for the man in hiding to enter that room before she did. How was this to be accomplished? A dozen suggestions had been given him by his confederate, but he had forgotten them all. He was in too great a whirl to think, yet he must think; some way must be found. Ah, he had it. Taking up the receiver at his side, he telephoned to a German friend to call him up in five minutes, giving him the number of the telephone in the farthest room. This he did in German, telling him it was a joke and that he was not to insist upon an answer. Then he waited. In five minutes this farther bell rang. Calling to Miss Lee, he asked her to answer for him, saying he was very busy. As she rose, he gave a preconcerted signal on the door of Mr. Beers's room. As she disappeared in the one beyond, the dapper figure of Johnson crossed the outer office and slipped into the one holding the safe. A minute later she was back reporting the message and getting instructions, but the one thing she had to fear had been done; the trap had been laid, and now for its victim! It was not long before that victim responded to the call. On the departure of the manager from the room Grace Lee rose, and with a conscious look toward the two clerks, slipped across the floor to the open door of the safe room. Entering, she swung to the door, which closed with a snap; then, with just a moment of hesitation, in which she seemed to be trying to regain her breath, she passed quickly across to the safe and took up her stand before it. So directly and so quickly had she done this that she had not seen the slim, immovable figure drawn up against the wall at her right behind the projection of a large bookcase. Nor did any influence for good or evil cause her to turn after she had reached the safe. All her thoughts, all her hopes, all the dreams which she had cherished seemed to be concentrated in the blank, eyeless object which confronted her, impenetrable to all appearance--a block of steel without visible opening--an enigma among safes--the problem of all problems to every cracksman in town but one--which was about to be solved if one could judge from the thrill which now shook her, and in shaking her communicated the same excitement to the silent, breathless, determined man in her rear, watching her as the tiger watches the quarry, and with the same tiger spring latent in his eye. In a moment her secret would be out, and then---- CHAPTER XIII "_I am from headquarters_" For just a minute Grace Lee paused before the blank door of the safe, then she passed around to an unused speaking tube in the neighboring wall. Halting before it, in low but distinct tones she began to sing the famous aria from "The Magic Flute." All agog, with eyes starting and ears alert, the man behind listened and watched. Nothing happened. Then came a change. Gradually her voice rose, sweet and piercing, till it reached that famous F in alt so rarely attempted, so exciting to the ear when fairly taken and fairly held. Grace Lee could take it, and as it hung, sweet and deliciously thrilling in the air, Beau Johnson saw, to his amazement, though he was in a way prepared for it, the heavy safe door slip softly ajar. She had done it with her voice. How, he could only vaguely guess. He was better educated than most of his class, or he could not have understood it at all. As it was, he laid it to the vibration caused by a certain definite note acting on some delicate mechanism set in accord with that note, which mechanism starting another and a stronger one gradually led up to that which drew the bolts and set the door ajar. Whether his theory were true or not mattered little at the moment. The event for which he waited had been accomplished and accomplished before his eyes. To profit by it was his next thought, and to this end he held himself ready for the spring which had laid latent in his eyes since he first saw her advance toward the safe. She was ignorant of his presence. This was evident from the jaunty way she turned from the tube, still singing, but in a desultory way, which showed that her thoughts were no longer on her music. But she was not so engrossed that she did not see him. The moment that her face turned his way, her eyes enlarged, her body stiffened, her whole personality took on power and purpose and _she_ sprang more quickly than he did and shut the safe door with one quick movement of her hand that fastened it as securely as before. Then she drew herself up to meet his rush, a noble figure of resolute womanhood which any other man would have hesitated to assail. But he was proof to any appeal of this kind. She had been quicker than he who was esteemed the readiest in his class, and he owed her a grudge, if only for that. Smiling--it was a way of his when deeply moved or deeply dangerous--he accosted her with smooth and treacherous words. "Don't scream, young lady; screaming will do you no good. Mr. Fellows has left the business to me and I am quite competent to manage it. I am from headquarters--a detective. Yesterday you aroused the manager's suspicions, and I was detailed this morning to watch you. What do you want from Mr. Stoughton's safe? An honest answer may help you. Nothing else will." [Illustration: "_She was ignorant of his presence_"] "I want----" she hesitated, eyeing him over with an insight and an undoubted air of self-command which told the hardy rascal that in this woman he was likely to meet his match. "I want some securities of Mr. Stoughton's which he has ordered me to dispose of for him. I am in his confidence, as I can prove to you if you will give me the opportunity. I have papers at home that will satisfy any one of my right to open this safe and to negotiate such papers as are designated in Mr. Stoughton's cablegrams." "I don't doubt it." The words came easily from the mobile lips of the wily Beau Johnson. "But it was not to do Mr. Stoughton's business that you opened the safe just now. You have had no orders to-day; you had no order yesterday. Another purpose is in your mind--a personal purpose. It is this abuse of Mr. Stoughton's confidence which brings me here. _You want three thousand dollars badly!_" CHAPTER XIV "_You do not answer_" She recoiled. Strong as she was, she was not proof against this surprise. "How do you know that?" she asked, her voice losing its clear tone. "I do not deny it, but how could you know what I thought to be a secret between----" "You and your lover? Well--we--the police know many things, young lady. We have a gift. We also have a kind of foreknowledge. I could tell you something of your future if you will deign to listen to me. Your lover is an honest man. What do you suppose he will do when he hears that you have been arrested for attempted burglary on your employer's effects?" He had been slowly advancing as he reeled off these glib sentences, but he paused as he met her smile. It was not of the same sort as his, but it was not without a certain suggestiveness which he felt it would be best for him to understand before he threw off his mask. "I don't know what he will do," said she, meeting the false detective's eye as she laid her hand on the safe, "but I know what I shall do if you carry out the purpose you threaten. Show my papers to the police and demand evidence of my having any bad intentions in opening this safe this morning. I think you will have difficulty in producing any. I think that you will only prove yourself a fool. Are you so strong with the authorities as to brave that?" Astonished at her insight and more than astonished at her self-control, the experienced cracksman paused, and then in tones he rarely used, remarked quietly: "You are playing with your life, Miss Lee. I have a pistol leveled at you from my pocket, and I'm the man to fire if you give me the slightest occasion to do so. I'm Beau Johnson, miss, a detective if you please, but also a tolerably experienced cracksman, and I want a taste of those bonds." "And Mr. Fellows?" The words rang out clear and fearlessly. "Oh, he? He's a muff. You needn't concern yourself about him. The matter's between us two. Three thousand dollars for you, and a little more, perhaps, for me, and I to take all the blame." Her eye stole toward the door. No one could enter that way, she knew. Even her screams, if she survived them, might alarm, but could not bring her help for several minutes, if not longer. Yet she did not tremble; only grew a shade paler. "You do not answer. What have you to say?" "This." She was like marble now. "You will not kill me, because that would be virtually to kill yourself. You cannot leave this room without my help, nor fire a shot without being caught like a rat in a trap. I want three thousand dollars, and I mean to have them, but I do not see how you are going to get the few more which you promise yourself. Certainly I am not going to aid you in doing so, and you cannot open that safe. You have not the musical training." "No." The word came like a shot, possibly in lieu of a shot, for if ever he felt murderous it was at that moment. "I have not a musical training, but that does not make me helpless. In a few moments I shall have the pleasure of hearing you test your voice again. There's the office clock ticking; count the strokes." She stood fascinated. What did he mean by this? Involuntarily she did his bidding. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, _eleven_!" "Yes," he repeated, "eleven! And at half past your old father dies." "Dies?" Her lips did not frame the words; her eyes looked it, her whole sinking, suddenly collapsing figure gave voice to the maddening query, "_Dies?_" CHAPTER XV "_Now, if Fellows will stay away_" "Yes. Such is the understanding if I do not telephone my pals to hold off. He's not at home; he's with my friends. They don't care very much about old men, and if I have not a decent show of money by half-past eleven this morning the orders are to knock him on the head. It won't take a very hard knock. He was far from being in prime condition this morning." She had shown great feeling at the beginning of this address, but at its close she drew herself up again and met him with something of her old composure. "These are all lies," said she. "My father would never leave his house at the instigation of any gang. In the first place, he is not strong enough to attempt the stairs. You cannot deceive me in this fashion." "He might be carried down." "He wouldn't submit to that, nor would the other lodgers in the house allow it without an express order from me." "They got the order; not from you, but from him. He demanded to be allowed to go. You see, Mr. Fellows sent a message that you were hurt--I will speak the whole truth, and say dying. The old man could not be held after that. He went with the messenger." Her cheeks were now like ashes. She had gauged the man before her and felt that he was fully capable of this villainy. How great a villainy she alone knew who had the history of this old man in her heart. "He went with the messenger," repeated Johnson, watching her face with a cruel leer. "That messenger knew where to take him. You may be sure it was to a place quite unknown to the police and to every one else but myself. Five minutes more gone, miss. In just twenty-five minutes more you will be an orphan and one impediment to your marriage will be at an end. How about the other?" "Oh!" she wailed. "If I could really believe you!" "I can smooth away that doubt. If you will promise not to compromise me with the clerks or any one inside there, I will allow you to telephone home and learn the truth of what I have told you. Anything further will end all business between us and wind up your father's affairs at the hour set. I can afford to humor you for ten minutes more in this nonsense." "I will do it," she cried. "I must know what I am fighting before----" She caught herself back, but he was quite able to finish the sentence for her. "Before you submit to the inevitable," he smiled. Her head fell and he pointed toward the door. "I will trust you to guard my--our interests," said he. "Open and go directly to your own telephone." With a staggering step she obeyed. Creeping up stealthily behind her he watched her manner of opening the door and profited by the one quick glance he got of the office as she stepped through and passed hurriedly forward to her desk. There was no one within sight. Mr. Fellows had not yet returned and the clerks were too remote to notice her agitation or pay attention to her gait or the tremulousness of her tone as she called for her home number. "Couldn't be better," thought he. "Now if Fellows will stay away long enough, I'll be able to double the boodle I've promised myself." This with a chuckle. Meantime Miss Lee had got in her message. The answer sent her flying toward him. "He's gone! He's gone!" she gasped. "My old, old father! Oh, you wretch! Save him and----" "You save me first," he whispered, and was about to draw her back into the room with the safe, when the outer door opened and a stranger entered on business. Her agony at the interruption and the few necessary words it involved caused the visitor to stare. But she was able to make herself intelligible and to turn him over to one of the clerks, after which she rejoined Johnson, closing the door quietly behind her. His greeting was characteristic. "You waste breath," said he, "by all this emotion. You'll need it to open the safe." "What guarantee have I that you will keep your part of the contract?" she cried. "I sing--the door opens--you help yourself, and you go. That does not restore to me my father." "Oh, I'll play fair. In proof of it, here's my pistol. If on our going out I do not stop with you at the telephone and let you communicate with your father and send my own message of release, then shoot me in the back. I give you leave." Taking the pistol he held out, she cocked it, and looking into the chambers, found they were all full. "I know how to use it," she said simply. Admiration showed in his face. He bowed and pointed toward the tube. "Now for the song," he cried. CHAPTER XVI "_It was not paper I meant to have_" With a bound she took her stand. She was white as death and greatly excited. Watching her curiously, the crafty villain noted the quick throbbing of her throat and the feverish grip on the pistol. "Time is galloping," he remarked. She gave a gasp, opened her lips and essayed to sing. An awful, indescribable murmur was all that could be heard. Stiffening herself, she resolutely calmed down her agitation and tried again. The result was but little better than before. Turning with a cry, she looked with horror-stricken eyes into the unmoved, slightly sardonic face of the man behind her. "I cannot sing! You have frightened away my voice. I cannot raise that note even to save my father's life. I'm choking, choking." Then as she caught the devilish gleam lighting up his eye, she added, "You will never have those thousands! The safe is closed to us both." He laughed, a very low, cautious laugh, but it made her eyes distend with uncertainty and dread. "You fail to do justice to my fore-*thought," said he. "I took this into my calculations. I know women; they can be wicked enough, but they lack coolness. Let me see now what I can do. I cannot sing, but I have a little _aide de camp_ which can." Walking away from her, he approached a small table on which stood an object she had never seen in that room before. It was covered with a cloth, and as he removed this cloth, she reeled with surprise; then she became still with hope and the rush of fresh and overpowering emotions. A graphophone stood revealed, one of the finest quality. It was set to play the air so often on her lips, and in another moment that keen, high note rang through the room,--that and no more. It answered. Slowly, softly, after one breathless moment, the door they both watched with fascinated gaze swung slowly ajar, just as they had seen it do at the beginning of this interview, and Johnson, coming forward, pulled it open with a jerk and began to fumble among the contents of the safe. She could have killed him easily. He had forgotten--but so had she, and there was no one else by to remind her. Had there been, he would have seen a strange spectacle, for no sooner had Johnson's hand struck those shelves and minute drawers, than Grace Lee's whole attitude and expression changed. From a terrified, incapable woman, she became again her old self, strong, self-controlled, watchful. Creeping up behind him, she looked over his shoulders as he examined with his quick, experienced eye the various papers he drew out, noting his anger and growing disappointment as he found them unavailable for immediate use. Conscious of her presence, his rage grew till it shot forth in words. Not stinting oaths, he whirled on her after a moment and asked where the securities were. "_You_ meant to have them; you know where the ready money is. Show me, show me at once or----" Then a great anguish passed across her face, a look of farewell to hopes sweet and dearly cherished. If he saw it he did not heed. All his evil, indomitable will shone in the eye he turned up askance at her, and though she held the means of killing him in her hand, she bowed to that will, and leaning over him, she whispered in his ear: "It was not paper I meant to have, but--but something else--I----" She stopped, for breath was leaving her. His slim, assured hand was straying toward a certain knob hidden partly from sight, but plain to the touch if his fingers crept that way. "Listen!" She was gasping now, but her hand laid on his shoulder emphasized her words. "There are jewels at the other end; Mrs. Stoughton's bridal jewels. They are worth thousands. I--I--meant to take those. They are in a compartment under that lower drawer. Yes, yes--there they are; take them and be gone. I--I have lost--but you will give me back my father? See! there are not many minutes left. Oh, be merciful and----" CHAPTER XVII "_Now for my part of the bargain_" He was looking at the jewels, appraising them, making sure they were real and marketable. She was looking at them, too, with a wild longing and a bitter disappointment, which he, turning at that moment to mark her looks, saw and rated at its full value. "Well, I guess they'll do," he exclaimed, pausing in his task of thrusting the gems in his pocket to hand her a bracelet ornamented with one small diamond. "But I expected more from all this fuss and feathers. Was it to guard these----" "Yes," she murmured, thrusting the bracelet into the neck of her dress and stepping quickly back. "They are priceless to the owner. Associations you know. Mrs. Stoughton is dead--There! that will do. Now for my part of the bargain," and bethinking her at last of the pistol, she raised it and pointed it full in his face. "You will close that door now and send the telephone you promised." He rose and banged to the door. "All right," he cried. "You've behaved well. Now hide that pistol in your waist and we'll step into the outer office." She did as she was bid, and in a moment more they were crossing the floor outside. As they did so, she noticed that the two clerks had been sent out to luncheon, leaving them alone with Mr. Fellows. This was not encouraging, nor did she like the click which at this moment Beau Johnson made with his tongue. It sounded like a preconcerted signal. Whether so or not, it brought Mr. Fellows from his room, and in another instant he was standing with them before the telephone. There was a clock over the safe-room door. It stood at just twenty-five minutes after eleven. "Hurry!" she whispered as the other took up the receiver. She did not need to say it. His own anxiety seemed to be as great as hers, but his anxiety was to be gone. The nerve which sustained him while the issue was doubtful gave some slight tokens of failing, now that his efforts had brought success and only this small obligation lay between him and the enjoyment of the booty he had won at such a risk. She was sure that his voice trembled as he uttered the familiar. "Hello!" and during the interchange of words which followed, the strain was perhaps as great on him as on her. "Hello! how's the old man?" She could hear the answer. It swept her fears away in a moment. "Well, but anxious about the girl." "She's all right, everything's all right. Take the sick man home and tell him that his daughter will be there almost as soon as he is." "I must hear my father's voice." It was Grace who was speaking. "I will give a cry that will echo through this building if you do not put me in communication with him at once." Her hand went out to the receiver. The veins on Beau Johnson's forehead stood out threateningly. "Curse you!" he muttered; but he gave the order just the same. "Hello! Don't shut off. The girl's nervous; wants to hear her father's voice. Have him up! two words from him will answer." "Father!" Grace's mouth was at the phone. No reply. She cast one look at Johnson. "They're getting him on his feet," he grumbled. _His_ eye was on the door. "Father!" she called again, her voice tremulous with doubt and anxiety. A murmur this time, but she recognized it. "It's he! it's he," she cried. "He's safe; he's well. _Father!_" But Johnson had no time for dilly-dallying. Catching the receiver back, he took his place again at the phone and shouted a few final injunctions. Then he faced her with the question: "Are you satisfied?" She nodded, speechless at last and almost breathless from exhaustion. He bowed and made for the door. As he opened it, Mr. Fellows slid forward and joined him. Both were leaving. He as well as Johnson. She caught the look which the manager threw her as he closed the door behind them. There was threat in that look and her heart strings tightened as she stood alone there facing her fearful duty. Mr. Fellows was a thief! The manager of this concern was even then perhaps walking off with the booty wrenched from her care by the devil's own inquisition. What should she do? Send for Philip? Yes, that was all her tortured mind could grasp. She would send for her own Philip and get his advice before she notified the police or sent the inevitable cablegram. She was too ill, too shaken to do more. Philip! Philip! She was fainting--she felt it, and was raising her voice to call in one of the clerks, when the outer door opened and Mr. Fellows came in. She had not expected him back. She had fondly believed that he had gone with his professional comrade; and the sight of him caused her to rise again to her feet. "You!" she murmured, facing him in dull wonder at his renewed look of threat. "I cannot stay in the same room with you. You are----" CHAPTER XVIII "_What have you done among you_" "Never mind me," came clearly and coldly from his lips. "It is of yourself you must think. Here, officer!" he cried, opening the door again and ushering in a man in plain clothes, but evidently one of the force. "This is the young lady. I accuse her of taking advantage of her power to open Mr. Stoughton's private safe to steal his jewels. Her confederate has escaped. He had a pistol and I had no means of stopping him. But she is right here and you will make no mistake in arresting her. The booty is on her, and smart as she is, she cannot deny that proof." With a cry, Grace's hand went up to her throat. Then she settled into her usual self once more. The officer, eyeing her, asked what she had to say for herself. "A great deal," was her low answer. "But I shall not say it here. If Mr. Fellows will go with me to wherever you take people suspected of what you suspect me, I can soon make plain my position. But first I should like to send for my friend, Mr. Philip Andrews. He is with the Stickney Company, and he is acquainted with my affairs and the understanding between Mr. Stoughton and myself by which I have access to that gentleman's safe and do much of his private business for him." "That's all right. Send for Mr. Andrews if you wish, but you mustn't expect to talk to him without witnesses. Is that your coat and hat?" "Yes." "Well, put them on." Mr. Fellows advanced and whispered something in the officer's ear. Immediately the suspicious look grew in his eyes, and he watched her every movement with increased care. She saw this and stepped up to him. "I shall not deny having this piece of jewelry about my person," she said, drawing the bracelet from its hiding place. "The man whom Mr. Fellows calls my confederate gave it to me and I took it; but it will be hard for him or any one else to prove that it is a theft, harder than it will be for me to prove who is the real culprit here and the man whom you ought to arrest. Watch me, but watch him also; he is more deserving of your close attention than I am." Her disdain, her poise, the beauty which came out on her face when she was greatly stirred, gave her a striking appearance at that moment. The officer stared, then followed her glance toward Mr. Fellows. What he saw in him made him thoughtful. Turning back to Miss Lee, he said kindly enough, "Will you let me have that bracelet?" She passed it over and he thrust it in his pocket. "Now," said he, "I will go first. In a few minutes follow me and go down Nassau Street. A carriage will be at the curb. Take it. As for Mr. Fellows----" "I cannot leave till some of the clerks come in." "We will all wait till a clerk comes." Mr. Fellows paled. "Here is one now." The door opened and Philip Andrews came in. [Illustration: "_The door opened and Philip Andrews came in_"] "Oh, Philip!" "What is this? What have you done among you?" It was no wonder he asked. At sight of him Grace Lee had fainted. CHAPTER XIX "_So that was your motive_" Two hours later Grace was explaining herself. She was still pale, but very calm now, though a little sad. The sadness was not occasioned by any doubt she felt about her father. She had telephoned home and learned that he had arrived there and was well, and had nothing but good to say of his captors. No, there was another cause for her manifest depression, a cause not disconnected with Philip, toward whom her eyes ever and anon stole with an uneasy appeal which her mother would have been troubled to see. But it comforted Fellows, who began to regard her threats as idle in face of the evidence of her complicity as afforded by the concealed bracelet. The officer on duty was questioning her. Had she done this and that? Yes, she had. Why? Then she told her story--the story you have already read. As she proceeded with it, every eye sparkled under the graphic tale, and the police, who had some acquaintance with Beau Johnson, recognized his hand in all that she told. One face only wore a sneer, and that was Fellows's. But no sneer could discredit a story told with such vim and straightforward earnestness. As she mentioned the emptying of the office, each person present turned and gave him a look. The manager had undertaken a piece of work too big for him. His explanations of the presence of the graphophone in this inner office were feeble and contradictory. But he had his revenge, or thought he had, when she came to the jewels. She had pointed them out, but only to save a worse disaster. Injury to her father? "Yes, and----" She paused and her voice thrilled. "In one of the secret drawers," she continued, "there was an immense amount of currency in large denominations, the loss of which would cripple the business, if not bankrupt Mr. Stoughton. His hand was feeling its way along the face of this drawer. In another moment he would have discovered the tiny knob by the manipulation of which this drawer opens. To save the struggle which would have ensued, I directed his attention elsewhere. I don't believe I did wrong." "But you accepted one of these articles as your share. Do you believe you did right in this?" "Yes. I will not mention the smallness of the share, for that makes the portion saved for the owner of little account. Yet that portion is saved. I wish it had been a larger one." "No doubt. So that was your motive--to save this souvenir for Mr. Stoughton?" Casting a proud look at Philip, she moved a step nearer to the table on which the bracelet lay. "Will you be good enough," she asked her interrogator, "to take up that bracelet and read the initials on the inner side?" "R. S. T.," read the official. "Does any one here know Mrs. Stoughton's maiden name?" Evidently not, for all remained silent. "Does any one here know my mother's maiden name?" Philip started. "Yes," he cried, "I do. Her name was Rhoda Selden Titus." [Illustration: "_'R. S. T.' read the official_"] "R. S. T.," smiled Grace. "This bracelet was my mother's. Mr. Stoughton allowed me to place this keepsake and some other valuables of mine in his private safe. Gentlemen, the whole of those jewels were mine--my sole and only fortune. I was keeping them for"--her eyes stole toward Philip--"for my marriage portion, the secret and great surprise I had planned for my future husband. They are worth some five thousand dollars--my mother was the daughter of a wealthy man. They would have given us a home if I could have kept them; they would also have given my husband a start in business, and this I should have preferred, but I could not let Mr. Stoughton's securities be endangered, and so they had to go. Philip, cannot you forgive me when you think that it was through my folly the secret of the safe became known?" "I forgive you?" He could not show his feelings, but his eyes were eloquent; so were Fellows's; so were those of the various officials. "You can prove these statements, Miss Lee?" asked one. "Easily," she replied. Then they turned to Fellows. CHAPTER XX "_A jewel of far greater value_" Grace never got back her jewels. The wily Johnson was not caught, though Fellows turned state's evidence and did all he could to have the professional netted in the same manner as himself. But she did not suffer from this loss. When Mr. Stoughton learned the full particulars of this daring robbery, he made good to her the value of those jewels, and the prosperity of this young couple was secured. He was even present at the wedding. Grace wore her mother's bracelet, but on her breast was a jewel of far greater value. On its back was engraved, To brave G. L. From her grateful friend, T. S. [Illustration: "_He was even present at the wedding_"] Transcriber's Note: Changes have been made to the original publication as follows: Page 12 which for some inscrutible _changed to_ which for some inscrutable Page 15 you're proposition, Mr. Fellows _changed to_ your proposition, Mr. Fellows Page 69 window You can see it _changed to_ window. You can see it Page 77 attempted some purile protest _changed to_ attempted some puerile protest Page 78 done by day and duing _changed to_ done by day and during Page 100 screaming will do no you good _changed to_ screaming will do you no good Page 113 drew herself up againand met him with _changed to_ drew herself up again and met him with Page 123 horrorstricken eyes into the unmoved _changed to_ horror-stricken eyes into the unmoved Page 133 stood at just tw nty-five _changed to_ stood at just twenty-five Page 134 want's to hear her _changed to_ wants to hear her Page 153 Gentlemen the whole of those _changed to_ Gentlemen, the whole of those 
17762	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 17762-h.htm or 17762-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/7/6/17762/17762-h/17762-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/7/6/17762/17762-h.zip) THE BURGLAR'S FATE AND THE DETECTIVES. by ALLAN PINKERTON, Author of "Expressman and Detective," "Melnotte and Detectives," "Professional Thieves and Detectives," "Railroad Forger and Detectives," "Mollie Maguires and Detectives," "Spiritualists and Detectives," Etc., Etc., Etc. New York: G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers. London: S. Low, Son & Co. MDCCCLXXXIV. Copyright, by Allan Pinkerton. Stereotyped by Samuel Stodder, 42 Dey Street, N.Y. Trow's Printing And Book-Binding Co., N.Y. PREFACE. In the pages which follow I have narrated a story of actual occurrence. No touch of fiction obscures the truthful recital. The crime which is here detailed was actually committed, and under the circumstances which I have related. The four young men, whose real names are clothed with the charitable mantle of fiction, deliberately perpetrated the deed for which they suffered and to-day are inmates of a prison. No tint or coloring of the imagination has given a deeper touch to the action of the story, and the process of detection is detailed with all the frankness and truthfulness of an active participant. As a revelation of the certain consequences which follow the perpetration of crime, I send this volume forth, in the fervent hope that those who may read its pages, will glean from this history the lessons of virtue, of honor, and of the strictest integrity. If in the punishment of Eugene Pearson, Dr. Johnson, Newton Edwards and Thomas Duncan, the young men of to-day, tempted by folly or extravagance, will learn that their condemnation was but the natural and inevitable result of thoughtless crime, and if their experience shall be the means of deterring one young man from the commission of a deed, which the repentance of years will not obliterate, I shall feel that I have not labored in vain. As a true story of detective experience, the actors in which are still living, I give this volume to the world, trusting that its perusal may not fail in its object of interesting and instructing the few or many who may read its pages. ALLAN PINKERTON. CONTENTS. PREFACE v CHAPTER I. Geneva--The Robbery--Search for the Burglars--My Agency notified 11 CHAPTER II. The Investigation begun--John Manning's Visit to Geneva--Eugene Pearson's Story--The Detective's Incredulity--A Miraculous Deliverance with a Ten-Cent Coin 22 CHAPTER III. An Interview with Miss Patton--Important Revelations--Doubts Strengthened--Mr. Bartman's Story--William Resolves to seek Newton Edwards 38 CHAPTER IV. The Work Progresses--Eugene Pearson's Early Life--On the Trail of Newton Edwards 51 CHAPTER V. New Developments--Tidings of Newton Edwards--Suspicions Strengthening against Eugene Pearson--Mr. Silby's Confidence 63 CHAPTER VI. The Detective at Woodford--An Interview with the Discarded Wife of Newton Edwards 77 CHAPTER VII. A Fire and a Talkative Fireman--Mrs. Edwards Receives a Letter 90 CHAPTER VIII. A Plan to Intercept Correspondence--Edwards fully Identified A pretty Servant Girl and a Visit to Church 102 CHAPTER IX. Waiting and Watching--Two Letters--Newton Edwards' Hiding-Place Discovered 116 CHAPTER X. The Burglar Tracked to his Lair--The old Stage Driver--A Fishing Party--A Long Wait--A Sorrowful Surprise--The Arrest of Newton Edwards 125 CHAPTER XI. Newton Edwards brought back to Chicago--Attempt to Induce a Confession--a Visit to his Relatives--The Burglar Broken Down 141 CHAPTER XII. The Confession of Newton Edwards--The foul Plot fully Explained Eugene Pearson's Guilt clearly Proven--A Story of Temptation and Crime 154 CHAPTER XIII. Edwards taken to Geneva--The Arrest of Eugene Pearson His Confession--More Money Recovered--Dr. Johnson Arrested 167 CHAPTER XIV. Proceedings at Geneva--Speculations as to the Missing Five Thousand Dollars--John Manning Starts in Search of Thomas Duncan 182 CHAPTER XV. On the Track of the fleeing Burglar--Duncan's Home--Some Reflections 192 CHAPTER XVI. Bob King meets with a Surprise--His Story of Duncan's Flight The Detective starts Westward 208 CHAPTER XVII. Manning Strikes the Trail--An Accommodating Tailor--Temporary Disappointment and final Success--The Detective reaches Minneapolis 224 CHAPTER XVIII. The Detective at Bismarck--Further Traces of the Fugitive A Protracted Orgie--A Jewish Friend of the Burglar in Trouble 241 CHAPTER XIX. From Bismarck to Bozeman--The trail Growing Warmer--Duncan Buys a Pony--A long Stage Ride 254 CHAPTER XX. The Stage Driver's Story 266 CHAPTER XXI. False Information which nearly Proves Fatal--A Night Ride to Helena--Dangers by the Wayside 280 CHAPTER XXII. In Helena--A Fruitless Quest--Jerry Taylor's Bagnio--Reliable Tidings--A Midnight Ride--Arrival at Butte City 293 CHAPTER XXIII. The Long Trail Ended--Duncan Traced to his Lair--Caught at last The Escaping Burglar a prisoner 306 CHAPTER XXIV. The Burglar Returns to Chicago--Revelations by the Way The Missing Five Thousand Dollars 319 CHAPTER XXV. The Mystery of the Missing Five Thousand Dollars Solved at Last The Money Recovered--Duncan at Geneva 328 CHAPTER XXVI. Conclusion--Retribution 337 THE BURGLAR'S FATE AND THE DETECTIVES. CHAPTER I. Geneva--The Robbery--Search for the Burglars--My Agency Notified. Geneva is one of the prettiest and most thriving little towns in the west. Situated, as it is, in the midst of one of the finest agricultural districts in the country, its growth has been rapid beyond expectation, while its social progress has been almost phenomenal. Stretching for miles in all directions, over a country beautifully interspersed with gentle elevations and depressions, lie the well-cultivated farms of the honest tillers of the soil. The farm-houses, which nestle down beneath the tall trees, present an appearance of comfort and beauty rarely witnessed, while the commodious and substantial out-buildings evince the thorough neatness of systematic husbandry. Standing upon a high knoll, and gazing over the scene upon a bright sunny morning, the eye lights upon a panorama of rustic splendor that delights the vision and entrances the senses. The vast fields, with their varied crops, give indications of a sure financial return which the gathered harvests unfailingly justify, and the rural population of Geneva are, in the main, a community of honest, independent people, who have cheerfully toiled for the honest competence they so fully enjoy. Nor is the town dependent alone upon the farmer and the herdsman for its success in a financial sense. Nature has been bounteous in her gifts to this locality, and in addition to the fertile and fruitful soil, there is found imbedded under the surface, great mines of coal, of excellent quality, and seemingly inexhaustible in quantity. This enterprise alone affords employment to hundreds of men and boys, who, with their begrimed faces and brawny arms, toil day and night in the bowels of the earth for the "black diamonds," which impart warmth and light to countless happy homes, and materially add to the wealth of the miners. Numerous manufacturing industries also find a home here. Large buildings, out of whose huge chimneys the black smoke is pouring forth in dense volumes, and whose busy wheels and roaring furnace fires, mingled with the sound of scores of ringing hammers, make merry music throughout the day. On certain days in the week Geneva presents a cheerful and animated appearance. On every hand are heard the sounds of honest toil and the hum of busy trade. Farmers from the surrounding country come in numbers into the village to purchase their necessary supplies and to listen to the news and gossip of the day, and the numerous stores transact a thriving business and reap a handsome profit on their wares. The old mill, weather-beaten and white with the accumulating flour dust of ages, and with the cobwebs hanging thick and heavy from its dingy rafters, stands near by, and this too is an object of interest to the sturdy farmers of the surrounding country. From morn till night its wheels go round, transmuting the grain into the various articles of consumption for man and beast, and bringing a goodly share of "honest toll" into the coffers of the unimpeachable old miller. The mill is a great place of meeting for the farmers, and the yard in its front is daily filled with teams from the country, whose owners congregate in groups and converse upon topics of general interest, or disperse themselves, while waiting for their "grist," about the town to transact the various matters of business which had brought them hither. In common with all progressive American towns, Geneva boasts of its school-house, a large brick building, where rosy-cheeked children daily gather to receive the knowledge which is to fit them more thoroughly for the great battle of life, when the years shall have passed and they become men and women. Here, too, are banking institutions and warehouses, and every element that contributes to the thrift and advancement of a happy, honest, hard-working and prosperous people. Of its history, but few words are necessary for its relation. Not many years ago it was the home of the red man, whose council fires gleamed through the darkness of the night, and who roamed, free as the air, over the trackless prairie, with no thought of the intruding footsteps of the pale-face, and with no premonition of the mighty changes which the future was to bring forth. Then came the hardy pioneers--those brave, self-reliant men and women who sought the broad acres of the west, and builded their homes upon the "edge of civilization." From that time began the work of progress and cultivation. Towns, villages and cities sprang up as if under the wand of the magician. Fifty years ago, a small trading post, with its general store, its hand grist-mill, rude blacksmith-shop and the fort. To-day, a busy active town, with more than five thousand inhabitants, a hundred business enterprises, great railroad facilities, and every element that conduces to prosperity, honesty and happiness. Such is Geneva to-day, a substantial, bustling, thriving and progressive village of the west. It is a hot, sultry day in August, 18--, and the shrill whistles from the factories have just announced the arrival of six o'clock. Work is suspended for the day, and the army of workmen are preparing for their homes after the labors of the day. At the little bank in Geneva the day has been an active one. Numerous herders have brought their stock into market, and after disposing of them have deposited their moneys with the steady little institution, in which they have implicit confidence, and through which the financial affairs of the merchants and farmers round about are transacted. The last depositor has departed, and the door has just been closed. The assistant cashier and a lady clerk are engaged within in settling up the business of the day. At the Geneva bank the hours for business vary with the requirements of the occasion, and very frequently the hour of six arrives ere their customers have all received attention and their wants have been supplied. This had been the case upon this day in August, and breathing a sigh of relief as the last customer took his leave, the front door was locked and the work of balancing up the accounts was begun. Suddenly, a knock is heard at the outer door, and Mr. Pearson, the assistant cashier, being busily engaged, requested the young lady with him to answer the summons. As she did so, two men, roughly dressed, and with unshaved faces, burst into the room. Closing the door quickly behind them, one of the men seized the young lady from behind and placed his hand upon her mouth. Uttering a piercing scream, the young lady attempted to escape from the grasp upon her, and with her teeth she inflicted several severe wounds upon the ruffianly hand that attempted to smother her cries. In a moment she was knocked down, a gag was placed in her mouth, and she was tied helplessly hand and foot. While this had been transpiring, the other intruder had advanced to the assistant cashier, and in a few moments he too was overpowered, bound and gagged. In less time than is required to tell the story, both of them were lying helpless before their assailants, while the open doors of the bank vault revealed the treasures which had excited the passions of these depraved men, and led to the assault which had just been successfully committed. No time was to be lost, the alarm might be sounded in a moment, and the thieves, picking up a valise which stood near by, entered the vault, and securing all the available gold, silver and bank-notes, placed them in the satchel and prepared to leave the place. Before doing so, however, they dragged the helpless bodies of the young man and woman into the despoiled vault, and laying them upon the floor, they deliberately closed the doors and locked them in. Not a word had been spoken during this entire proceeding, and now, in silence, the two men picked up the satchel, and with an appearance of unconcern upon their faces, passed out of the bank and stood upon the sidewalk. The streets were filled with men and women hurrying from their work. The sun was shining brightly in the heavens, and into this throng of human beings, all intent upon their own affairs, these bold burglars recklessly plunged, and made their way safely out of the village. How long the two persons remained in the bank it is impossible to tell; Miss Patton in a death-like swoon, and Mr. Pearson, in the vain endeavor to extricate himself from the bonds which held him. At length, however, the young man succeeded in freeing himself, and as he did so, the young lady also recovered her consciousness. Calling loudly for help, and beating upon the iron door of their prison, they indulged in the futile hope that some one would hear their cries and come to their rescue. At last, however, Mr. Pearson succeeded in unscrewing the bolts from the lock upon the inside of the doors of the vault, and in a few minutes thereafter, he leaped out, and dashing through a window, gave the alarm upon the street. The news spread far and wide, and within an hour after the robbery had taken place, the town was alive with an excited populace, and numerous parties were scouring the country in all directions in eager search of the fugitives. All to no avail, however, the desperate burglars were not discovered, and the crest-fallen bank officers contemplated their ruin with sorrowful faces, and with throbbing hearts. Meanwhile, Miss Patton had been carefully removed to her home, her injuries had been attended to, and surrounded by sympathetic friends, who ministered to her wants, she was slowly recovering from the effects of the severe trial of the afternoon. An examination of the vault revealed the fact that the robbers had succeeded in obtaining about twenty thousand dollars in gold, silver and currency--all the available funds of the bank, and the loss of which would seriously impair their standing, and which would be keenly felt by every one interested in its management. Though sorely crippled by their loss, the bank officials were undismayed, and resolved to take immediate steps for the capture of the criminals, and the recovery of the stolen property. To this end they decided to employ the services of my agency at once, in the full hope that our efforts would be crowned with success. Whether the trust of the directors was well founded, and the result so much desired was achieved, the sequel will show. CHAPTER II. The Investigation Begun--John Manning's Visit to Geneva--Eugene Pearson's Story--The Detective's Incredulity--A Miraculous Deliverance With a Ten-Cent Coin. On the evening of the same day on which this daring robbery occurred, and as I was preparing to leave my agency for the day, a telegram was handed to me by the superintendent of my Chicago office, Mr. Frank Warner. The message read as follows: "GENEVA, August --, 18--. "Bank robbed to-day. Twenty thousand dollars taken. Please send or come at once. "(Signed,) HENRY SILBY, President." This was all. There was no detail of particulars, no statement of the means employed, only a simple, concise and urgent appeal for my services. As for myself, realizing the importance of promptness and despatch in affairs of this nature, and fully appreciating the anxiety of the bank officials, I resolved to answer their call as speedily as possible. But few words of consultation were required for the subject, and in a short time I had selected the man for the preliminary investigation, and requested his presence in my office. John Manning was the operative chosen for this task, an intelligent, shrewd and trusty young man of about thirty years of age, who had been in my employ for a long time. Well educated, of good address, and with a quiet, gentlemanly air about him that induced a favorable opinion at a glance. Frequently, prior to this, occasions had presented themselves for testing his abilities, and I had always found him equal to any emergency. Sagacious and skillful as I knew him to be, I felt that I could implicitly rely upon him to glean all the information that was required in order to enable me to devise an intelligent plan of detection, and which would, as I hoped, lead to eventual success. Giving John Manning full instructions as to his mode of proceeding, and cautioning him to be particular and thorough in all his inquiries, I directed him to proceed as soon as possible to the scene of the robbery, and enter at once upon the performance of his duties. In a very short time Manning had made his preparations, and at eight o'clock that evening he was at the depot awaiting the departure of the train that was to bear him to his new field of operation. After a journey of several hours, in which the detective endeavored to snatch as much comfort as possible, the train drew up at the neat little station at Geneva, and Manning was upon the ground. It was two o'clock in the morning when he arrived, consequently there were but few people stirring, and the station was almost entirely deserted. Two or three passengers who were awaiting the train, the persons connected with the railroad, and the runners of the two hotels (Geneva boasted of two of these very necessary establishments), were the only persons who greeted him upon his arrival. Having never been to Geneva before, and being entirely ignorant of the accommodations afforded by either of these houses of entertainment, Manning, at a hazard, selected the "Geneva Hotel" as his place of abode. Consigning his valise to the care of the waiting porter, he was soon on his way to that hostelrie, and serenely journeyed along through the darkness, all unconscious of the reception that awaited him. On arriving at their destination, he perceived through the glimmering light that hung over the doorway, that the "Geneva Hotel" was an old, rambling frame structure, which stood in the midst of an overgrowth of bushes and shrubbery. So dense was the foliage that the detective imagined the air of the place was damp and unwholesome in consequence. Certain it was, as he discovered afterward, the air and sunshine had a desperate struggle almost daily to obtain an entrance into the building, and after a few hours engaged in the vain attempt, old Sol would vent his baffled rage upon the worm-eaten old roof, to the decided discomfort of the lodgers in the attic story. Ceremony was an unheard-of quality at the "Geneva House," and the railway porter performed the multifarious duties of night clerk, porter, hall boy and hostler. As they entered the hotel, the porter lighted a small lamp with the aid of a stable lantern, and without further parley led the detective up two flights of stairs which cracked and groaned under their feet, as if complaining of their weight, and threatening to precipitate them to the regions below. Opening the door of a little box of a room, out of which the hot air came rushing like a blast from a furnace fire, the porter placed the lamp upon a dilapidated wash-stand and the valise upon the floor, and without uttering a word, took himself off. With all its progressiveness, it was evident that Geneva was far behind the age in regard to her hotel accommodations; at least so thought Manning as he gazed disconsolately around upon his surroundings. The room was small, close and hot, while the furniture exceeded his powers of description. The unpainted wash-stand seemed to poise itself uneasily upon its three remaining legs--the mirror had evidently been the resort of an army of self-admiring flies, who had left their marks upon its leaden surface until reflection was impossible--two hard and uncomfortable-looking chairs--and a bed, every feature of which was a sonorous protest against being slept upon--completed the provisions which had been made for his entertainment and comfort. Casting a dismal look upon his uninviting quarters, but being thoroughly tired, the detective threw himself upon the couch, which rattled and creaked under him like old bones, and in a few moments was sound asleep. How long he might have remained in this somnolent condition if left to himself, it is impossible to state, for a vigorous alarm upon his door cut short his slumbers, and startled him from his dreams. Imagining that the hotel had taken fire, or that the porter had eloped with the silver ware, he jumped hastily out of bed and opened the door. "It's late and breakfast is waitin'," was the laconic message delivered to him by the porter of the night before, as he started away. With a muttered malediction upon this ruthless destroyer of his rest, the detective donned his clothing, and, feeling as tired and unrefreshed as though he had not slept at all, descended to the dining-room. If his experiences of the previous evening had been distressing, the breakfast which was set before him was positively heart-rending. A muddy-looking liquid which they called coffee--strong, soggy biscuits, a beefsteak that would rival in toughness a piece of baked gutta percha, and evidently swimming in lard, and potatoes which gave decided tokens of having been served on more than one previous occasion. With a smothered groan he attacked the unsavory viands, and by dint of great effort managed to appease his hunger, to the serious derangement of his digestive organs. After he had finished his repast he lighted a cigar, and as the hour was still too early for a conference with the bank officials, he resolved to stroll about the town and ascertain the locality of the Geneva bank, before entering upon the duties of the investigation. His stroll, however, was not a very extended one, for as he started from the hotel he noticed upon the opposite side of the street the sign of the bank. The building in which it was located was a large, square brick structure, occupied in part by the bank, and in part as a store for the sale of hardware and agricultural implements. The upper floor was used as an amusement hall, and was called the "Geneva Opera House." Here the various entertainments of a musical and dramatic nature were given, to the intense delight of the people of the village. There was no notice of the bank having suspended operations on account of the loss they had sustained, and the operative inferred from this, that business was being transacted as usual. When the doors were at length opened the operative entered the banking room, and requesting to see Mr. Silby, was ushered into the private office of the president. As he passed through the room he took a passing inventory of the young assistant cashier, Mr. Pearson, who was busily engaged upon his books. He appeared to be a young man of about twenty-four years of age; of a delicate and refined cast of countenance and about medium height. His hair and a small curly mustache were of a light brown shade, and his complexion was as fair as a woman's. The young lady who had been the other victim of the assault was not present, and the detective concluded that she was as yet unable to attend to her duties. These thoughts and impressions passed through his mind as he walked through the banking room into the office of the president. As he entered this apartment, he found several gentlemen evidently awaiting his appearance, all of whom wore a thoughtful, troubled look, as though they keenly felt the losses they had sustained and were resolved to bear up manfully under their misfortune. Mr. Silby, the president, a tall, fine-looking gentleman in the prime of life, arose as the detective entered. Mr. Silby was one of those persons who instinctively impress the beholder, with a confidence closely approaching to veneration. Of a commanding presence, a broad noble face surmounted with a wealth of hair in which the silvery touch of time has left many traces, while his deep blue eyes were as bright as those of a youth of twenty. There was such an air of rugged and uncompromising honesty, of kindly feeling and warm-heartedness about the man, that even before he had spoken the detective experienced a strong impulse of regard for him, and a corresponding determination to perform his full duty in this investigation and to devote all the energy of his being to the task before him. Presenting his letter of introduction, Mr. Silby hastily ran his eyes over the contents, and then extending his hand he gave the detective a most cordial greeting, and introduced him to the other gentlemen present, all of whom received him warmly. "Take a seat, Mr. Manning," said Mr. Silby, drawing up a chair. "You find us anxiously awaiting your arrival, and prepared to give you any information you desire." "Thanks," responded the operative, taking the proffered chair. "As I have come here for the purpose of making an examination into this case, I shall require all the information that is possible to obtain." "Very well," said Mr. Silby. "Now, what do you desire first?" "A full statement as to how the robbery was committed," answered the detective, promptly. "Mr. Welton," said Mr. Silby, turning to a gentleman at his right, who had been introduced to the detective as the cashier of the bank, "perhaps you can relate the particulars better than I can." "Excuse me," interrupted the detective, "but were you present at the time the robbery occurred?" "No, sir, I was not present," replied Mr. Welton. "Mr. Pearson, our assistant cashier, and Miss Patton, were the only persons in the bank at that time." "Then," said the detective, "suppose we have Mr. Pearson in at once, and hear the story from him. We always prefer," he added, with a smile, "to receive the particulars of these affairs from eye-witnesses." The other gentlemen nodded a cordial assent to this proposition, and Mr. Welton arose, and going to the door, requested Mr. Pearson to enter the consulting room. The young man entered the office, and upon being introduced, greeted the detective with an air of frank earnestness, and signified his readiness to relate all that he knew about the robbery. He remained standing, and from his statement the facts were elicited which I have given in the preceding chapter. As he finished, he pointed to a scar upon his forehead, which he stated was the result of the blow he received at the time from the robber who attacked him. The wound did not appear to be a very serious one, although the skin had been broken and blood had evidently flowed freely. "Mr. Pearson," inquired the detective, after the young man had concluded, "do you remember having seen either of those men before?" The assistant cashier darted a quick glance at the detective, and then answered: "Yes, sir; about three o'clock yesterday afternoon, a well-dressed gentleman came into the bank, carrying a small valise in his hand, which he requested permission to leave here until the next morning. I asked him if it was of any value, and he replied no. Informing him that I would then place it in the office, the man thanked me, and went away. When the two men entered the bank at six o'clock in the evening, I instantly recognized one of them as the man who had called in the afternoon. He was, however, dressed very roughly on the occasion of this last visit, and had evidently changed his clothes for the purpose of escaping detection or recognition." "Which one of the men attacked you?" now asked the detective. "The one who left the valise in the afternoon. While the tallest of the two was struggling with Miss Patton, who was screaming loudly, the other one came behind the counter and struck me upon the head with the butt end of his revolver. I became insensible after this, and knew nothing until I found myself in the vault." "How did you extricate yourself from this dilemma?" inquired Manning. "Well, sir," began Pearson; and the detective imagined that he noticed a hesitancy in his manner, which was not apparent before, "when I recovered consciousness, I found myself locked up in the vault, with Miss Patton lying beside me. When she recovered, we both shouted loudly for help, and beat with our hands upon the iron doors, in the hope of attracting attention. This failed, and we were nearly desperate. Just then, however, my foot came in contact with some loose silver upon the floor, and on stooping to pick them up, I found that they were ten-cent pieces. Instantly, the idea occurred to me, to attempt to remove the screws which fastened the lock to the inside of the door, and of using one of these coins for the purpose. To my intense joy the screws yielded to my efforts, and in a short time the heavy door swung open, and we were free. I have told you already what followed." As John Manning jotted these recitals down in his note-book, he could not repress nor account for, a feeling of doubtfulness which crept over him at this point. He looked up into the young man's face, but there he saw only the evidence of serious truthfulness, and honest frankness; but still that lingering doubt was upon him and he could not shake it off. At his request, young Pearson then furnished him with a description of the two men, as nearly as his memory would serve him, and these the detective noted down for future use. At length, finding that he had obtained all the information which could be afforded him here, he thanked the gentlemen for their assistance, and promised to call again in the course of the day. "Remember, Mr. Manning," said Mr. Silby, "we rely entirely upon the resources of Mr. Pinkerton's agency, and that we are confident that you will succeed." "I cannot promise that," returned Manning, "but you may be assured that if success is possible, we will accomplish it." So saying, he shook hands with the gentlemen, and left the bank. He betook himself at once to the hotel to prepare himself for further action in this investigation. CHAPTER III. An Interview with Miss Patton--Important Revelations--Doubts Strengthened--Mr. Bartman's Story--William Resolves to Seek Newton Edwards. As the morning was not yet very far advanced, John Manning concluded to pay a visit to Miss Patton, the other eye-witness to, and active participant in the robbery. Ascertaining the locality of her residence, he walked along the pleasant shaded street, revolving in his mind the various points upon which he had been enlightened during the interview just concluded. Arriving at his destination, he found a neat, cosy little cottage, set in the midst of a bright garden of blooming flowers, the perfume of which filled the morning air. There was an appearance of neatness and beauty and comfort about the place, which at once gave evidence of the refinement of those who dwelt within, and as the detective walked along the graveled path that led to the front door, he found himself involuntarily arranging his shirt-collar, and calling up his best manner for the occasion. His knock was responded to by a kindly-faced, matronly looking lady, whom he instinctively felt was the mother of the young lady. Making his business known, and requesting an interview with Miss Patton, he was ushered into a cool, well-furnished parlor, to await the conveyance of his message and to learn the disposition of the invalid. In a few minutes the lady reappeared, and stated that although her daughter was still very weak and nervous from the shock she had sustained, she would see him, and requested him to step into her room. Entering a neatly furnished little chamber, he beheld the young lady reclining upon a couch, looking very pale, but with a pleasant smile of welcome upon her face that at once gave him the courage to proceed with the unpleasant business he had in hand. Bidding her a polite good morning, he took the seat, which had been placed for him near the bed, and as delicately as possible, stated his business and the reason for his calling upon her. At this point Mrs. Patton excused herself, and retired, with the evident intention of leaving them alone. Manning quietly and delicately made his inquiries, and the girl answered them in a plain, straightforward manner. Her story corroborated all that had previously been related by young Pearson, and left no doubt in the mind of the detective that the occurrences of the eventful afternoon had been correctly detailed. He could not, however, control the doubtfulness that was impressing him with regard to Eugene Pearson. "I cannot forbear the thought," said he, when Miss Patton had concluded her story, "that if Mr. Pearson had displayed a reasonable amount of manly bravery, this robbery could not have taken place." "There is something very strange to me," said the girl, musingly, "about the manner in which Eugene acted; and--there are some things that I cannot understand." "Would you object to telling me what they are?" said the detective. "Perhaps I can enlighten you." "Well," responded the girl reluctantly, "I fear that Eugene has not told the entire truth in this matter." "In what respect?" inquired the detective. "I would not do anything to injure Mr. Pearson for the world, Mr. Manning, and he may have forgotten the circumstance altogether, but I am sure that I saw one of those robbers on two occasions before this occurred, in the bank and talking to Mr. Pearson." "Why should he seek to conceal this?" asked the operative. "That is just what I cannot understand," answered the lady. "Tell me just what you know, and perhaps I can help you in coming to a correct conclusion." "I don't like to say anything about this, but still I think it is my duty to do so, and I will tell you all that I know. More than two weeks ago, I returned from my dinner to the bank one day, and I saw this man in the private office with Mr. Pearson; I noticed then that their manner toward each other showed them to be old acquaintances rather than mere strangers. This man left the bank in a few minutes after I came in. He had the manner and appearance of a gentleman, and I did not think anything of it at the time." "Did Mr. Pearson tell you who he was, or explain his presence there at that time?" "No, I did not ask anything about him, and he did not mention the matter to me." "When did you see them together again?" "That same evening about dusk. I had been making a call upon a friend, and was returning home when I met them walking and conversing together." "Did Mr. Pearson recognize you on that occasion?" inquired the detective. "No, sir, he did not seem to notice me at all, and I passed them without speaking." "You are quite sure about this?" "Oh, yes, quite sure. I recognized him immediately when he came yesterday afternoon to leave the valise in the bank, and also when he came with the other man when the robbery was committed." "Do you feel confident that you would be able to identify him, if you were to see him again?" "I am quite sure that I would," returned the girl confidently, "his features are too indelibly fixed in my mind for me to make any mistake about it." "Have you said anything to Mr. Pearson about this?" "Yes; as soon as we were out of the vault, I said to him--'One of those men was the man who left the valise and the same one I saw in the office the other day.'" "What reply did he make." "He appeared to be doubtful, and simply said, 'Is that so?'" "Very well, Miss Patton," said the detective at length, "we will look fully into this matter; but in the meantime, I particularly desire that you will say nothing to any one about what you have told me to-day. It is very necessary that a strict silence should be preserved upon this point." The young lady cheerfully promised compliance with this request, and in a few moments the detective, after thanking her for her kindness in seeing him, arose and took his departure. As he strolled back to the hotel, he revolved the information he had received carefully in his mind. He had also obtained from Miss Patton a description of the two men, and found that they agreed very nearly with what he had learned from Mr. Pearson. He went to his room immediately, and prepared a report of all that had transpired during the morning, carefully detailing all that he had heard relating to Mr. Pearson's alleged intimacy with one of the robbers, and of the successful attempt he made to extricate himself from the vault, by means of the ten-cent piece. After concluding his relations, he requested the assistance of another operative, in order that they might scour the country round about, in the hope of finding some clues of the escaping robbers. On the next morning, operative Howard Jackson, a young, active and extremely intelligent member of my force, arrived at Geneva, and placed himself in communication with John Manning, for the continuance of this investigation. When Manning's reports were duly received by my son, William A. Pinkerton, the superintendent of my Chicago agency, he gave the matter his most careful and earnest attention, and as he finished their perusal, he formed the opinion that young Pearson was not entirely guiltless of some collusion in this robbery. The more he weighed the various circumstances connected with this case, the more firm did this conclusion become, until at last he experienced a firm conviction that this young man knew more about the matter than he had yet related. It seemed strange to him that a young, strong and active man like Pearson should not have manifested even ordinary courage in a crisis like this. He was behind the desk when the attack was made upon Miss Patton at the door, and saw what was transpiring before the second assailant had time to reach him. Even if powerless to defend her, it seemed reasonable that he could have raised an alarm, which would have attracted the attention of the passers by; or, failing in that, he could, at least, have hastily closed the vault doors, and thus have saved the money of the bank. He knew that these doors were open, and that within the vault were nearly thirty thousand dollars, for which he was indirectly responsible. But a moment's time would have sufficed to close these doors and adjust the combination, and yet he made no effort to prevent a robbery which he knew was intended. The ordinary promptings of manhood would, it was thought, have induced him to make some show of resistance, or to have gone to the rescue of a young and delicate girl; but none of these things did he do, and, if the story related was true, the young man had acted like a base coward at the best, and submitted without a murmur to the outrages that were perpetrated in his presence. Instead of acting like a man, he stood tamely by and allowed a woman to be cruelly beaten, the bank robbed, and the robbers to walk off unmolested and unharmed. There was another matter which seemed impossible of accomplishment. Pearson had stated that while in the vault he had removed the screws from the lock upon the door with the aid of a ten-cent piece. This idea seemed to be utterly incredible, and prompted by his doubts, William attempted the same feat upon the lock on his office door. After several efforts, in which he exerted his strength to the utmost, he was obliged to desist. The screws utterly defied the efforts to move them, while the coin was bent and twisted out of all shape, by the pressure that it was subjected to. While he was thus engaged with his thoughts upon this perplexing problem, he was informed that two gentlemen from Geneva desired to speak with him. Signifying his readiness to receive them, two well-dressed gentlemen entered and announced their business. One of these men was a Mr. Perry, a director of the Geneva bank, and his companion was a Mr. Bartman, a merchant in Newtonsville, a little town situated but a few miles distant from Geneva. "Mr. Bartman," said Mr. Perry, addressing my son, "has some information to communicate, which I think is important enough to deserve serious consideration, and I have brought him to you." Mr. Bartman's information proved to be of very decided importance. He stated that he was a merchant, doing business in Newtonsville, and that he was in the habit of purchasing his goods from various traveling salesmen who represented Chicago houses. Among this number was a young man named Newton Edwards, who was in the employ of a large commission house, located on South Water Street, in the city of Chicago. He had known Edwards for some years, and had frequently dealt with him during that period. During the forenoon of the day on which the robbery occurred, he saw Newton Edwards in Newtonsville, but that instead of attempting to sell his goods, that gentleman was apparently seeking to avoid observation. He met him upon the street and familiarly accosted him, but Edwards received his salutations coldly, and did not engage in any conversation. Mr. Bartman thought nothing of this at the time, but in the afternoon, having business in Geneva, he drove over to that place, and, to his surprise, he found Edwards, in company with a strange young man, lingering around the public house in Geneva, apparently having nothing whatever to do. He noticed also, that Edwards was somewhat under the influence of liquor, and that he had effected a complete change in his apparel. A few hours after this he heard of the robbery, and instantly his mind reverted to the strange appearance and actions of Newton Edwards. He endeavored to find him, but, as if in confirmation of his suspicions, both Edwards and his companion had disappeared. Mr. Bartman gave a full description of Edwards as he appeared that day; and in substantiation of his suspicions, it was found to agree perfectly with that given by both Eugene Pearson and Miss Grace Patton. Mr. Perry stated that within two hours after the robbery had been discovered, men had been sent out in all directions, in search of the fleeing robbers, but without success. They had only been enabled to learn that two men, carrying a valise between them, had been seen walking along the railroad track in a north-westerly direction from Geneva, but that was all. In the darkness of the night, they had succeeded in eluding their pursuers, and on the following day all traces of them were obscured. Two things were now to be done at once; to ascertain the antecedents of Eugene Pearson, and to seek the whereabouts of Newton Edwards. To these tasks William applied himself immediately, and with what result will be shown hereafter. CHAPTER IV. The work progresses--Eugene Pearson's early life--On the trail of Newton Edwards. In the meantime operatives Manning and Jackson had been untiring in their efforts to obtain some traces of the robbers. They had found a number of people who recollected seeing two men, answering the description of the suspected thieves, who carried a valise between them, but beyond a certain point all traces of them stopped. It seemed that the ground had opened and swallowed them up, so effectual had been their disappearance. While thus engaged, operative Manning received instructions to keep a watchful eye upon young Pearson, and also to make quiet and judicious inquiries as to his habits and associates in Geneva. The result of these inquiries was most favorable to the young man, and under ordinary circumstances would have disarmed suspicion at once. During the progress of this search after truth, operative Manning had preserved the utmost good feeling and cordiality in his dealings with Eugene Pearson, and had succeeded in establishing a friendly intimacy with him, that would have allayed any fears which the young man might have had, as to the opinions entertained by the detectives with regard to himself. Mr. Pearson was very positive that one of the robbers was the same man who had left the valise at the bank during the afternoon, and, after learning that Manning had paid a visit to Miss Patton, he stated his belief that this same person had called at the bank a few weeks before. He could not remember the name he had given at that time, but thought he had inquired as to the financial standing of several of the business men of Geneva. During all these interviews Mr. Pearson displayed the utmost willingness to assist the detectives in their investigation, and with a frankness that was refreshing, answered every question that was put to him as if with the earnest desire of facilitating their labors and contributing to the accomplishment of their success. Eugene Pearson was a young man, it was learned, who had first seen the light in the little town of Geneva, then a straggling little village with none of the pretensions it now presented. His parents were most exemplary people, and his father at one time had been a wealthy grain merchant, but during one of the financial panics that swept over the country, he was unfortunate enough to suffer embarrassments which stripped him of his fortune and left him penniless in his old age to begin again the battle of life. At the present time, he was a benevolent-looking, intelligent old gentleman, who occupied the honorable and not very lucrative position of postmaster of Geneva, from the receipts of which, and a few other interests he was enabled to maintain his family in comparative comfort. Young Pearson had grown to manhood surrounded by the refining influences of his family, and, save for a few months spent at a business college in a neighboring city, had always dwelt in his native town. Among the residents of Geneva he was universally respected and admired. Possessed, as he was, of more than ordinary intelligence, and evincing good business qualifications, he had occupied his present position in the bank for several years, and at the time of the robbery, arrangements were being made for his promotion to the position of cashier, owing to the contemplated retirement of Mr. Welton, the present incumbent. His personal habits were unexceptionable, so far as known, and every one with whom John Manning conversed upon the subject, were loud in his praises. In the social circles of the town, he was an acknowledged favorite; he was a fair musician, was a member of the choir in the leading church of Geneva, and a teacher in the Sunday-school. His handsome face and pleasing manners gained for him a host of friends, and his companionship was eagerly sought by the young people with whom he associated. The young ladies were particularly partial to his society, and it was stated that he was engaged to be married to a beautiful young lady of the town, whose father was one of the wealthiest men in the country round about. At the bank, he was held in high esteem by both the officers and directors, and Mr. Silby's affection for him amounted almost to the love of a father for a favorite child. From infancy to manhood his name had never been associated with aught that was injurious or degrading, and among all the young men of Geneva, Eugene Pearson stood highest in public esteem and general favor. The result of these inquiries were not calculated to strengthen the doubts which had been formed of young Pearson's participation in this robbery, and yet the suspicion remained unchanged, and we determined to await developments before yielding our opinions to what seemed to be a pressure of circumstances. In the meantime, William had not been idle in the city. Ascertaining the name of the firm for which Newton Edwards was traveling, and determined to satisfy his mind upon this point, he dispatched an operative to the business house to which he had been referred. The result of this inquiry was that Mowbray, Morton & Co., the firm with which Edwards had at one time been engaged, stated that he had severed his connection with them a short time before, and since then had done nothing for them, but had been traveling for another house on the same street, and they believed he was the junior partner of the firm. Inquiry at this house elicited the information that Edwards had retired from this firm, and had connected himself with a large eastern house, which dealt extensively in fruits and a general line of groceries. At this place, however, several items of information were gleaned which were of importance. The gentlemen connected with this establishment were very well acquainted with Newton Edwards, of whom they spoke in the highest terms. He had been in Chicago during all of the week previous to the robbery, but had left the city on Saturday, stating that he intended to travel through Wisconsin and Minnesota in the interest of the new firm which he represented. He had not been seen since, nor had they heard from him. Finding that the gentleman who furnished this information was an intimate acquaintance of Edwards, the operative next inquired as to his family connections and his place of residence. On these points he was fully informed, and he cheerfully imparted the desired information. Edwards, it appeared, had been married recently to a lovely and accomplished young lady from one of the outlying towns, and since his marriage had been residing with the husband of his sister, a gentleman named Samuel Andrews, who resided at 29 Logan Place, in Chicago. Edwards also had a brother who was married, and who lived in the city, and the location of this gentleman's residence was also cheerfully furnished by the merchant. Upon returning with this information, the operative at once reported to my son William, who decided upon an immediate course of action. Directing the operative to inquire for tidings of Edwards at both of the places named, he indited a telegraphic message to the chief of police at Milwaukee and Minneapolis, for the purpose of ascertaining if Edwards had been at either place since leaving the city. He described the man fully, stated the name of the house which he represented, gave the fullest particulars as to his identity, and then requested to be informed if he had made his appearance in either of these cities. To all these messages the answer was received that Edwards had not, as yet, arrived, although the chief at Milwaukee stated that he had met a friend of Edwards, who informed him that he had received a letter from the young man dated four days prior to the robbery, stating that he would be in Milwaukee in a few days, and that he would be accompanied by his wife. As yet, however, he had not arrived, and nothing further had been heard of him. This was a corroboration of the first suspicion regarding Newton Edwards, and was convincing of the fact that he had not done as he had informed his friends that he would do. William was convinced, therefore, that he was upon the right track, and impatiently awaited the return of the operative who had been sent to the residences of Edwards' relatives. The detective delegated for that purpose proceeded to the locality to which he had been directed, where he found a comfortable-looking, well-kept brick dwelling-house, and upon a metal plate upon the door, he noticed the name he was in search of. Ascending the steps, he rang the bell, and shortly afterward was ushered into a handsomely furnished parlor, where he was greeted by a pleasant-faced lady, who announced herself as the sister of Mr. Newton Edwards. "Is Mr. Edwards residing with you?" inquired the detective. "Not now," answered the lady, "he was here until Saturday last, when he left, saying that he was going to Milwaukee upon business. I have heard however, that he was in town on Sunday last, but that I am not sure of." "Did his wife go with him?" now asked the operative, hoping to obtain an interview with her, if possible. "No, sir," replied Mrs. Andrews, with an air of sudden coldness and reserve, which was not lost upon the watchful man before her. "Mrs. Edwards left on the same day, in company with her brother, who has taken her to his home; I do not wish to allude to this matter, but I am afraid my brother and his wife do not live happily together." "Have they separated?" asked the detective, in a tone of solicitude. After a momentary hesitation, the woman replied: "I am inclined to think they have. Newton has not been himself lately, and has, I am sorry to say, been drinking a great deal. This naturally led to harsh treatment of his wife, and I presume she wrote to her brother, and on last Saturday he came and took her away." Finding the lady indisposed to furnish further information, the detective took his leave. At the second place he received much the same information, and concluding that he had exhausted this matter, he started to return to the agency. At this latter place, however, he had casually inquired for the name and residence of Mrs. Edwards' brother, and on learning that, had concluded his visit. Everything thus far had favored a belief that Edwards was concerned in this robbery. His leaving home a day or two before the act was committed, his quarrel with his wife, his statement made to friends that he was going upon a business trip, which it was evident he had not done, his strange appearance at Newtonsville and Geneva on the day the robbery took place, the fact that his personal appearance agreed perfectly with that given of the robber, by eye-witnesses to that event, and his mysterious disappearance since, all went to prove beyond question that Newton Edwards was the thief, and that decided steps should be taken to discover his whereabouts. Leaving William to devise a plan to accomplish this much-desired result, we will return to Geneva, and watch the movements of John Manning and Howard Jackson. CHAPTER V. New developments--Tidings of Newton Edwards--Suspicions strengthening against Eugene Pearson--Mr. Silby's confidence. In extending their investigations in and around Geneva, operatives Manning and Jackson had discovered numerous items of intelligence corroborative of their previous suspicions. A salesman, connected with a large mercantile house from one of the large cities, furnished the information that on Monday, the day on which the robbery occurred, he had traveled with Edwards as far as Newtonsville, and as he did not see him after leaving that place, he concluded that he must have stopped there. He also stated that Edwards appeared to be unusually cold and reserved, and that he was accompanied by a companion whom he did not introduce to his friends. At Newtonsville it was learned that a man, fully answering the description of Edwards' companion, had visited both of the livery stables in that town, and had attempted to hire a team of horses and a carriage. He had been refused in both instances, for the reasons that he was a stranger, and appeared to be under the influence of liquor. Several people both in Geneva and Newtonsville were found who remembered seeing Edwards, whom they knew--and a companion who was a stranger to them--about these towns on the day of the robbery, and they described their actions as being very peculiar. They had disappeared immediately after that and had not been seen since. If further proofs of the complicity of Edwards were required they could have been procured by the score, and as all traces of their route from Geneva had been lost, William resolved to commence a thorough and systematic process of espionage, which he believed would eventually lead to the discovery of his hiding-place. He thoroughly canvassed the situation and his conclusions were soon found. Newton Edwards had a father and mother--he had brothers and sisters; and in addition to these he had a lovely young wife, from whom he had parted in anger. It was not possible that he could shake himself loose from all these ties of kindred and affection at one blow, and it was reasonably sure that sooner or later he would attempt to correspond with them in some manner. Again, it might be the case that some of his relatives were already aware of his crime, and of the fact that he was hiding from the officers of the law, and it could not be expected that they would voluntarily give information that would lead to his discovery. However grieved and disappointed they might be, however angry they must naturally feel, they could not be expected at such a time as this to turn his accusers, and aid in his capture. I have known cases in the course of my professional practice, however, when fathers, actuated by what they considered the highest motives, have delivered up their sons to the law, and, though the ordeal was an exceedingly trying and distressing one, they never faltered for a moment in what they considered the performance of their duty. I need not say that such evidences of self-sacrifice were painful to me, and that my feelings were always deeply touched by the mental sufferings of the poor criminals, who in the hour of their sorest need, found themselves deserted by the only friends upon whom they believed they could rely in an emergency which threatened disgrace and servitude. While this is true, it is equally certain that I have yet to record a single case in which a female relative ever assisted, in any manner, toward the apprehension of a criminal. No power seemed able to force from her a word that would tend to work him injury, and though her heart was breaking, and her love for the lost one had passed away, yet, with a persistence worthy of all admiration, she refused to do aught that would add to the misery of the fallen one; and, if occasion offered, invariably rendered her assistance to secure his escape. Taking these ideas into consideration, therefore, it would not do to rely at all upon any assistance from the relatives of Edwards, and to advise them of our suspicions and search, would naturally only tend to place both him and them upon their guard. A slower and more laborious operation was therefore necessary. Fully in earnest in his determination to capture these men, and firmly supported by the officials of the bank, who were as resolute as he in their resolve to apprehend the robbers, William at once put this plan into execution. Operatives were posted to watch the residences of the relatives of Edwards in the city, and instructed to carefully note their actions, particularly in the matter of receiving or posting of any letters. Another operative was despatched to Woodford to note the movements of Mrs. Edwards, the wife of the suspected thief, and to endeavor to obtain some information that would assist us in the chase. It might be possible that this reported quarrel was a mere ruse, to blind the detectives, and to throw them off the scent; and it was important that the truthfulness of this story should be substantiated. At the same time, William decided on no account to lose sight of young Pearson, and directed the operatives at Geneva to maintain a strict watch over his movements, and by no means to permit him to leave town unaccompanied by some one who could note his every action. The young bank clerk, however, gave no cause for any new suspicion. He performed his duties at the bank with unflagging industry and evinced the greatest desire that the thieves might soon be captured. His solicitude for Miss Patton was apparently sincere and unceasing, and he frequently reproached himself for not having acted in a more manly manner at the time the assault was made. So humiliated did he appear at the loss the bank had sustained, and so earnest was he in everything that approached a vigorous and determined chase after the robbers, that he soon became an object of profound sympathy and higher regard to the bank officers and his numerous friends in Geneva. After fully considering this matter of young Pearson, William deemed it his duty to acquaint Mr. Silby with his suspicions. It was due to that gentleman, he argued, that he should be thus informed, and then if results should justify the suspicion he would be prepared for what would follow, while if the contrary should prove true he would have all the more reason for his high estimation of his young assistant cashier. He did not have long to wait before making this revelation, for in a few days after he had put his plans into operation and posted his men, William received a call from Mr. Silby, who desired to be informed of the progress that was being made. After fully detailing to the honest old banker all that we had thus far learned, and the steps which had been taken to ascertain the whereabouts of Newton Edwards, all of which met with his hearty approval, William delicately broached the unpleasant subject. "Mr. Silby," said he, "there is another matter which I desire to speak of, and one which I fear may occasion you some pain, or may meet with your opposition." "Let me know what it is, by all means," responded Mr. Silby, with a smile. "I am satisfied that what you have to say is for the best interests of the bank, and it would be absurd in me to offer opposition to that." "Well," said William, "there have been certain developments made in this case which, I regret to say, lead me to believe that Eugene Pearson is not entirely blameless in this robbery." "What do you mean?" exclaimed Mr. Silby, starting to his feet, and with a tremor in his voice, which told of inward agitation; "you do not mean that you suspect Eugene?" "I must confess that I do," said William solemnly, "and I regret it sincerely, both on your account and his own." "But this will not do," suddenly interrupted the old gentleman, "this cannot be. Why, I have known that boy ever since his childhood, and I have loved him as my own son. No, no, Mr. Pinkerton, you must be mistaken about this." "Mr. Silby," said my son, "let us look at this matter calmly and dispassionately. You have employed us to ferret out the thieves, and to recover, if possible, the money of which you have been robbed. We have therefore but one duty to perform, and that is to find the men. I have looked into this case carefully; I have noted every point thus far attained; I have weighed every item philosophically, and I tell you now, that I am convinced that Eugene Pearson knows more about this robbery than has yet been revealed." [Illustration: "I tell you, Mr. Silby, I am convinced that Eugene Pearson knows more about this robbery than has yet been revealed."] William then slowly and concisely detailed the various points upon which he founded his suspicions. The fact that Eugene Pearson had been seen in intimate conversation with the suspected man, his presence at the bank on the afternoon of the robbery, his actions, cowardly at best, when the assault was made upon the helpless girl, his peculiar statements since, and then the manner of his release by the aid of the ten-cent silver piece. Taking a coin from his pocket, he requested Mr. Silby to attempt the feat upon the slight lock upon the office door, which he tried, and though he labored strenuously, he was unable to move it. He also informed him that Manning had attempted the same thing upon the lock of the vault door, and that he could not budge a screw. All these facts he pointed out to the old gentleman as strong proofs of the young man's guilt. Mr. Silby sat during this recital with a dazed and stricken look upon his face, and when William had finished, he sat for a time in speechless amazement. Recovering himself at length, he said: "Mr. Pinkerton, this may all prove to be true; but at present, you must excuse me, I cannot believe it--it is too terrible." True and trustful old man! he could not be brought to believe that one so dearly loved and highly trusted could prove so base and undeserving. "Now, Mr. Silby," said William, "I have only this to ask--I may be wrong, or I may be right; but until definite results are achieved, I must request you to keep this matter a profound secret, and to keep a close watch upon young Pearson without exciting his suspicion; will you do this?" "I will do what you request," responded Mr. Silby; "but believe me, you will find that you are mistaken." "Another thing," continued William. "If at any time I should telegraph to you these words--'_Look out for that package_!' please remember that 'that package' means Pearson, and he must not be allowed to go away." "All this I will do, because I know you are doing what you think best; but I am confident all will be made right for the boy in good time." "For your sake, Mr. Silby, I hope so, too, but I am not so sanguine of that: and we cannot afford to take any risks." Mr. Silby arose to his feet, and grasping my son's hand, withdrew without a word. As he passed out, William looked after him with a feeling of compassion he rarely experienced. "It is a great pity," he murmured to himself, "that so much strong, manly faith should be so sadly misplaced, and I fear very much that before we are through with this case, Mr. Silby's trust in human nature will be badly shattered. But we must do our duty, and the right must triumph at last--we must await the result." CHAPTER VI. The Detective at Woodford.--An Interview with the Discarded Wife of Newton Edwards. It was on a hot sultry morning in August, about ten days after the robbery at Geneva, that William Everman arrived at the picturesque little city of Woodford. Woodford was the home of the brother of Mrs. Newton Edwards, with whom that lady was supposed to have taken refuge after her quarrel with her husband. Everman proceeded directly to the hotel upon his arrival, and quickly announced himself as a traveling salesman from a neighboring city. In a casual conversation with the clerk, he ascertained that Edwards and his wife were quite well known in the place, and that the clerk was an intimate acquaintance of the lady's husband. "Is Edwards stopping here now?" inquired the detective, in a careless manner. "No!" answered the clerk, as he fondly curled the ends of a very delicate and scarcely perceptible mustache. "He hasn't stopped here since his marriage; he usually goes to the home of his wife's family now." "Do you know whether he is in town now?" "I think not, unless he arrived last night," answered the young man. "There are several letters here for him, and he would have called for them before this. He has his mail always directed here." "I am sorry for that," said Everman. "I have some instructions for him from the house he travels for, and he ought to get them as soon as possible." "Perhaps Mr. Black could tell you where he is. I believe Edwards' wife is staying with him, and she certainly could tell you where you could address him, or whether he is expected here very soon." After thanking the clerk for his information and ascertaining the business place of Mr. Black, the detective left the hotel, and sauntered about the city. Walking leisurely down the main street, he soon came in sight of the place to which he had been directed. It was a small frame building, somewhat old and dilapidated, and was sadly in need of the painter's brush and a new covering of paint. Over the doorway swung a dingy, time-worn and weather-beaten sign, upon which he could barely decipher the words: "HENRY BLACK, Locksmith," and over which were suspended a pair of massive crossed keys which at one time had been bright golden, but which now were old and rusty looking. In the low window in front there was a rare and curious collection of articles that would have delighted the eyes of an antiquarian. Locks there were, that were relics of a by-gone age, and seemed as if they might have done service on dungeon doors in some ancient keep in feudal times--strange and grotesque locks that had evidently pleased the fancy of some old connoisseur, whose treasures were guarded by these strange looking protectors, which had now outgrown their usefulness, and were exhibited as curiosities in the practical age of to-day. Locks of latest finish and design, and locks red and rusty and worn out, were mingled together with a confusion and carelessness that bespoke a thriving business, which left no time for order or arrangement. Entering the shop without hesitation and with a careless air of assurance, Everman found himself in the presence of the locksmith, who was busily employed at his work. Mr. Black was a stout, good-looking, middle-aged man, who wore bushy whiskers and a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles. On the entrance of the detective he came forward with a pleasant smile on his face, as though expecting a profitable customer, and greeted the operative. "Well, sir, what can I do for you to-day?" "Nothing in the way of business," replied the detective; "I am seeking some information which perhaps you can give me." "Take a seat," said the locksmith, pushing a stool toward the detective, and at the same time seating himself upon the counter. "I don't know a great deal, but if I can tell you what you want to know I shall be happy to do so." "Thank you," replied Everman, as he produced a couple of fragrant cigars, and handed one to Mr. Black. "My name is Everman; I am a salesman for a city house, and am a neighbor of your brother-in-law, Newton Edwards. I have a message for him from his employer, and want to find out where to address him. I understood he had come to Woodford, and was informed at the hotel that I would be apt to learn from you whether he was in town." While he was speaking, he watched the countenance of the locksmith carefully, and as he mentioned the name of Edwards he noticed that the cheerful smile disappeared from his face and was replaced with a heavy frown; this remained but a moment, and when Everman finished speaking, he promptly and pleasantly replied: "I cannot tell you, I am sorry to say, where Mr. Edwards is at present, for I do not know myself. I only know that he was in Chicago on Saturday, a week ago, and at that time he stated that he was going to Milwaukee and St. Paul; whether he did so or not I cannot tell you." "I understood from his employer that he and Mrs. Edwards contemplated stopping in Woodford for a few days before he started upon his business trip." In response to this, Mr. Black stated to the detective, after much hesitation, but believing he was speaking to a friend, that on the Saturday mentioned, he had received a telegram from his sister, who was the wife of Newton Edwards, requesting him to come to her at once. He immediately responded to this summons, and on going to the house where she was stopping, he found her in great distress, and weeping violently. From her he then learned that Edwards had come to the house that morning in a state of intoxication, and had shamefully abused her. That he had ordered her to return to her family, and declared that he would never live with her again. Mr. Black had therefore brought his sister home with him, and threatened to inflict personal chastisement upon Edwards if he ever crossed his path again. Finding that the story of the separation was a truthful one, at least so far as the relatives of Mrs. Edwards were concerned, Everman decided to obtain an interview, if possible, with the forsaken wife. Inviting Mr. Black to accompany him to the hotel, which was but a short distance from the shop, the locksmith took off his leather apron and paper cap, and the two strolled away together. Over their cigars and a cooling draught of very good beer, the brother-in-law of the suspected criminal became quite friendly and communicative, relating many trifling particulars of Edwards' earlier life, which need not be repeated here. Preferring his request, at length, Mr. Black cordially invited him to his residence, and giving him explicit directions, suggested that he should call that afternoon. To this proposition Everman readily assented, and after a short time spent in friendly conversation, Mr. Black returned to his shop, and the detective wended his way to the locksmith's house. Arriving at the place designated, he found a pretty little cottage, overgrown with climbing vines, while a garden of bright blooming flowers rendered the front of the house an attractive spot. Ascending the stoop, he rang the bell, and in a few moments a pleasant-faced lady appeared at the door. Inquiring if Mrs. Edwards was within, and being informed in the affirmative, he was invited to enter the cool and cosy parlor and await her appearance. After a short delay Mrs. Edwards entered the room, and the heart of the detective was at once touched at the sad and sorrowful expression which she wore. She was young, scarcely more than twenty, and a handsome brunette. Her dark hair was brushed in wavy ringlets back from a broad, intellectual brow, and the dark eyes were dewy, as if with recent tears. Her cheeks were pale, and there were heavy shadows under the eyes, which told of sorrow and a heart ill at ease. Another thing the detective noticed, with a feeling of compassion, for he was himself a man of family, the lady was about to become a mother. How strange and unreasonable it seemed, that a young man of Edwards' position in society, with a lovely and loving wife, with business prospects of the most excellent character, could sacrifice all upon the altar of a base and ignoble ambition to be suddenly rich. That he could at one fell blow cast away the ties of kindred, the love of a devoted wife, the blissful anticipation of becoming a happy and proud father, and in an evil hour yield to a temptation which eventually would place the brand of the felon upon his brow, would cause him to be shunned and despised by his former friends and associates, clothe him in the garb of the convict, and, if justice were meted out to him, would make him an inmate of a prison. These thoughts flitted through the mind of the detective as he gazed upon the pale sad features of the suffering wife, and for a moment he regretted the profession which he had adopted. It is a common error, I fear, to imagine that a detective is devoid of those finer feelings which animate humanity, and to credit him with only the hard, stern and uncompromising ideas of duty which only appear upon the surface. This is a grave mistake, and does gross injustice to many noble men and women, who, in my own experience, have developed some of the most delicate and noble traits of which human nature is capable. It is true, their duty is hard and unyielding, its imperative requirements must be rigidly observed; but many a criminal to-day has urgent reasons to be thankful to the man who was instrumental in bringing him to account for the crimes he had committed. Many a convict's wife and children are the recipients of kindly actions from the very men whose duty it was to deprive them, by a legal process, of a husband and father. This may seem strange and incredible, but from my own experience I can testify to its absolute truthfulness. With the capture of the criminal the detective's duty ceases, and all the sympathetic promptings of his nature have full play. He has performed his duty to the state, to the law and to society, and that done, his knowledge of the sufferings which crime have caused leads him to acts of kindness and of practical assistance. To-day, I have some of the warmest and most grateful friends among the families of the men whom I was compelled to bring to justice, and in many cases the criminals themselves have acknowledged my actions, and have been better men in consequence. But this is a digression, and we will return to our narrative. Rising to his feet, the detective politely acknowledged the salutation of Mrs. Edwards, and in as few words as possible he stated his errand. With painful embarrassment of manner, Mrs. Edwards informed him that she could not tell him anything about her husband's movements, as, contrary to his usual custom, he had not informed her of the route he intended to take when he left home. Not a word or a hint was given of the trouble that was preying upon her heart, of the harsh, unfeeling treatment to which she had been subjected, or of the brutal order, expulsion and separation. The dignity of the noble little woman sustained her grandly, and no confession of her wrongs escaped her lips. She then informed the detective that she expected to hear from him every day, and that she believed he was now traveling through Wisconsin. That she was entirely unaware, at present at least, of her husband's whereabouts, the operative was firmly convinced; and she appeared to be equally uninformed of the suspicions that were entertained regarding him. After a few moments spent in friendly converse, the detective arose to take his leave; and after being invited to renew his visit, he departed from the house. "By George!" murmured Everman to himself, as he made his way back to the hotel; "that little woman is a wife to be proud of. That she knows nothing at present I am fully convinced, but I am also certain that if she learns of the crime her husband has committed, she would sacrifice her life rather than aid us in his discovery. What a strange, unequal world this is!--bad men linked with angelic wives; and vicious and unprincipled women yoked with men who are the very soul of honor. Well, well, I cannot set things right. I have only my duty to perform, and moralizing is very unprofitable." So pondering he returned to the hotel and resolving to call upon the chief of police in the afternoon, he went into the spacious dining-room and ordered his dinner. CHAPTER VII. A Fire and a Talkative Fireman--Mrs. Edwards Receives a Letter. After dinner operative Everman called upon the chief of police, and acquainting him fully with the nature of his business in the city, he enlisted his services in our behalf. Men were detailed to watch the arriving and departing trains, in order to discover if Edwards either paid a visit to Woodford or attempted to leave the place. This step was taken as a mere precaution, for the detective as yet felt confident that Mrs. Edwards was entirely ignorant of the movements of her husband or of the crime which he was suspected of committing. This was continued without result for three days, but on the afternoon of the fourth, the chief sought Everman at the hotel and informed him that he had important news to communicate. "What is it?" inquired Everman, when they were alone. "Well," said the chief, "it is just this. Last night, one of my men informs me, Mrs. Edwards received a letter from her husband, and to-day she appears to be in great trouble and distress of mind. There can be no doubt that she has been informed of his crime, and also that she now knows his present whereabouts." "She will never tell any one where that is, unless I am very much mistaken in her," interrupted Everman, "and we must look elsewhere for the information we desire." "Just my opinion exactly," replied the chief; "and I have thought of a way in which we might get what we want." "Let me hear what it is," said Everman. "It is just this--Mrs. Black has an intimate friend and confidante, to whom she tells everything she knows, and there is no doubt that she will soon, if she has not already done so, inform this lady of the letter received yesterday. Well, so far, so good. Now, this lady has a husband to whom she tells all she hears, and so he is apt to be as well informed in a short time. This man is Tom Nelson by name, a carpenter by trade, and a jovial, easy, good-natured fellow by nature. This man you must work up, and if you touch him correctly, you will find out all he knows." "Very good," replied Everman confidently; "now point out Tom Nelson to me and leave me to work the rest." At this moment an alarm of fire was sounded, and in a few minutes the street in front of the hotel was alive with people hurrying to the scene of the conflagration. Men and boys were running at the top of their speed, and shouting at the top of their voices; women were gazing from doors and windows, and the merry jingle of the bells of the fire-engines were soon heard, as the brave fire laddies were rushing to the rescue of the burning building. "The very thing!" ejaculated the chief. "I must go to the fire, and do you come along with me. Tom Nelson is one of the most active firemen of the city, and I will point him out to you. After that you must work your own way, for if I was to approach him upon the subject, he would become suspicious at once." So saying the chief hurried out of the hotel, closely followed by the detective. Turning a corner they saw, not a great distance off, the flames leaping from the windows and roof of a large frame structure, which was blazing and crackling like a huge pile of kindling prepared for the torch. Already the department was upon the ground, and when the chief and the detective reached the scene, several streams of water, shimmering like ropes of silver, were pouring into the burning building. With a noble self-sacrifice and a disregard for their own safety which was truly admirable, the brave fire laddies battled with the flames, and exerted themselves to the utmost to prevent the fire from reaching the adjoining buildings. At last, yielding to the almost superhuman efforts of the firemen, the fire was extinguished, leaving only the bare and blackened walls standing as monuments of the destruction that had been wrought. Foremost among the brave fellows who were performing their self-appointed and herculean duty was a man about thirty-five years of age, stout and muscular in form, and with a good-humored, honest face, that would attract your friendly regard at a glance. He was the most active and energetic man upon the ground, and it could be seen at once, that his whole heart was in the work in which he was then so earnestly engaged. "That's your man," said the chief, pointing toward him, "and now you can commence upon him as soon as you please." "All right," answered Everman; "I will see what I can do." The firemen had by this time, gathered up their hose and were preparing to return to their various houses, and Thomas Nelson, after assisting in this labor until it was completed, left his companions, and proceeded along the sidewalk in the direction of the hotel. Everman walked on slowly behind him, and seeing him enter the building, he followed closely after him. Nelson proceeded to the bar-room and had just tossed off a cooling glass of beer, when the operative made his appearance. "You seem to be thirsty after your hard work this morning," said the detective, in a laughing tone. "It was pretty hot work, and no mistake," replied Nelson; "and we were mighty lucky in saving the adjoining houses. I was afraid once they would certainly go." "Fill up your glass again," said Everman; and Nelson graciously acquiesced. "Yes," continued the operative, "you boys did excellent work, and you deserve great credit for it. I suppose your fire department here is composed entirely of volunteers?" "Yes, sir," answered Nelson, quite pleased with the encomiums which his pet hobby received; "and a better organized fire department is not to be found anywhere." "Well," said the detective, as he raised his glass, "here's to the health of your fire laddies; may you never miss a run, and always have as good luck as you did to-day." "Good," said the delighted fireman; "I don't know your name, but you're a good fellow, and I am glad to hear you speak so favorably of us." "My name is Everman," answered the detective frankly. "I only arrived in Woodford yesterday, and expected to meet a friend whose family resides here; but I regret to say I have been disappointed." "May I ask who you were waiting to meet?" This was the very question the detective most desired to be asked, and he answered at once. "Yes. I expected to meet Newton Edwards here, and I have some letters for him from his employer, which he ought to receive." At the mention of the name, Nelson started in astonishment, and then gave vent to a long, low whistle. "I am afraid you won't find him here," he said at last. "Afraid, Mr. Nelson! Why, what's the matter?" quickly inquired the detective. "Well, sir, I am afraid your friend has turned rascal, and has run away." "What do you mean?" sharply asked Everman. "Surely, you have no reference to my friend, Newton Edwards?" "Yes, I mean him exactly. He is a damned thief, that's what he is; and he has broken his wife's heart!" This was enough for Everman; and in a short time he had learned all that the honest carpenter could tell him. On the evening before, it appeared, Mrs. Edwards had received a letter from her husband, the contents of which had made her frantic with grief, and to-day she was unable to leave her bed. In this letter he had informed her that he had been connected with the robbery of the bank at Geneva, and that he had succeeded in eluding all pursuit, and was now hiding in some obscure place in the state of New York. "This is all I know about it," added Nelson, "and I suppose I ought not to tell this; but when a man turns out a damned rogue like that, honest people cannot afford to shield or uphold him in his rascality." "That's my opinion, exactly," rejoined the detective, "and I am sorry, indeed, for Edwards' wife, although I am free to confess that I have no further sympathy for him." "I ought not to have told you this," said Nelson, with some compunctions of conscience at his garrulity. "And if my wife was to hear that I had done so, she would take my head off." "Well, she won't hear of it from me, I can assure you, and I am too much disappointed in my friend to speak of it unnecessarily to any one." Their conversation was continued a few minutes longer, and then Nelson, promising to see my operative again, took his leave. Here was a revelation, which amounted to a direct confirmation of our suspicion regarding Edwards, and was convincing testimony of the fact that he was hiding from the officers of the law. The information about his location, while indefinite, was a surety of the fact that he had not gone west, according to his previous arrangement, and that he must be looked for in the state of New York. One thing, however, was necessary to be done at once, and that was to keep a sharp lookout for any letter which might be mailed by Mrs. Edwards or any member of her family. There was no doubt that this lady would sooner or later attempt to write to her husband, and that too within a few days. It was therefore of the utmost importance that a close watch should be kept upon all the movements of the members of Mr. Black's household, and then to endeavor to get at the address of any letters which they might attempt to mail. Everman immediately sent his report of what he had learned to me, and then sought the chief of police in order to enlist his further aid in such efforts as were now necessary to be taken. When the chief had listened somewhat incredulously to what Everman had been enabled to learn in the few minutes' conversation which he enjoyed with Tom Nelson, he was overwhelmed with surprise at the rapid success he had met with, and he readily proffered all the assistance in his power. Everman resolved to see Nelson again, and endeavor to induce him to ascertain the exact locality in which Edwards was hiding. The carpenter could not recollect it at the first interview, and was not sure that he had heard it, but Everman concluded to try to jog his memory upon that point still further. He did not have to seek an opportunity for meeting his man, for that evening he received another call from Nelson, who had evidently taken a great fancy to my affable operative. During the conversation that followed, Everman was informed by his new-found friend, that as well as he could recollect the name of the place from which Edwards' letter was posted began with a "_Mac_," and that was all that could be elicited from him. Everman gave as his reasons for desiring to learn this fact, that he wanted to write to him himself, and convey the letters which had been intrusted to him. After spending some time in the vain endeavor to refresh the carpenter's memory, they at length parted for the night. "Remember, Mr. Everman," said Nelson, as he left the hotel, "if I can find out for you what you want, I will surely do so; but for heaven's sake don't let my wife know it, or I will be scalped alive." The detective laughingly promised to beware of the sanguinary Mrs. Nelson, and the carpenter went his way. CHAPTER VIII. A Plan to Intercept Correspondence--Edwards Fully Identified--A pretty Servant Girl and a Visit to Church. While these events were transpiring at Woodford, William had not been idle in the city. A constant watch had been maintained upon the several premises occupied by the relatives of Newton Edwards, in the hope of detecting some attempt upon their part to communicate with the suspected thief. This at all times is rather a difficult object to achieve, but we have frequently been obliged to resort to this mode of acquiring information from lack of definite knowledge on which to base intelligent action. In order that one of the many of these expedients may be fully understood, a few words in detail may not be out of place. As is well known, the mail of an individual is so sacredly guarded by the laws of the country which govern the postal service, that an attempt to interfere with the letters of another is regarded as a felony and punished with severity. Of course, therefore, no efforts of ours would be directed to the obtaining or opening of any letters which might be mailed to the suspected individual. Our object was simply to obtain the addresses upon the envelopes, if possible, and then to search out the parties to whom they had been consigned. In this instance our manner of proceeding was quite simple, but it required that it should be managed with great care and without exciting the suspicion of any one. For this purpose each of the operatives, detailed for this duty, was provided with a number of envelopes of a peculiar size and color, and all addressed to fictitious persons. Our plan was, that if any one of Edward's relatives deposited a letter in any of the street boxes, the operative should be on hand and be prepared to drop his letter into the box immediately on the top of it. Another operative was then to await the visit of the postman on his round for collection, when he would step up to him and making a pretense of a mistake in the address of a letter which he had mailed, would from its position be enabled to obtain a glimpse of the suspected letters below, and their addresses. This watch was maintained unceasingly for several days without result, and it appeared either that the family were unaware of Edwards' hiding-place, or else that they were fearful of being watched, and avoided communicating with him on that account. In the meantime, William received another visit from Mr. Silby, the president of the despoiled bank, who stated very reluctantly, that he and Mr. Welton, the cashier, during the absence of Eugene Pearson from the bank, had attempted the feat of loosening the screws upon the lock of the vault, and had been unable to do so. They had exerted their strength to the utmost, and the screws had sturdily resisted their efforts. He was therefore compelled to admit that thus far the suspicions against young Pearson appeared to be well founded, and that the screws had evidently been loosened before the prisoners were confined in the vault, in order to allow them to escape, should the atmosphere prove too oppressive for their safety. Mr. Silby also stated, that he had obtained an interview with a Mr. Crampton, the president of the bank at Independence, where it was learned that the parents of Newton Edwards resided, and that without divulging any of our plans regarding that young man, he had acquired considerable information concerning him. It was learned that Edwards had for some time been regarded as a very fast young man, and several episodes were related of him, in which he had figured in no very enviable light. His parents were elderly people of eminent respectability, and were much distressed at the actions of their son, from whom they had expected so much. He had begun life with bright prospects, had entered into business with his own capital, but had failed after a short career, owing to his extravagant habits and his inattention to business. After this he had traveled for several firms, and while it was believed he received a large salary, there were many who shook their heads at the stories of his dissipation which reached their ears from time to time. This was information which was of some value, and opened up the way to accomplish an object which William had long desired. He therefore requested Mr. Silby to introduce John Manning to Mr. Crampton, and directed Manning to accompany that gentleman to Independence, and by their joint efforts endeavor to obtain a photograph of Edwards. This was attended to at once, and in a few days, through the assistance of the sheriff at Independence, we were enabled to secure an admirable likeness of the absconding burglar, although the same had been taken nearly two years prior to this. A number of copies of this photograph were at once printed, and they were furnished to the various operatives who were at work upon the case. Hitherto we had been compelled to rely upon the rather unsatisfactory method of identifying him by description only, and in many cases, except where persons are trained to the work of accurately describing individuals whom they meet, there is danger of not being able to identify any one who has no very prominent distinguishing marks about him. The first use to which this photograph was put was to exhibit it to Miss Patton, the young lady who had been assaulted in the bank, and she instantly recognized it as the picture of one of the men who had committed the robbery, and the one who had attacked Eugene Pearson, while the other intruder was engaged in the attempt to gag and bind her. This was very important, and no further efforts were now needed to establish the identity of Newton Edwards, or to connect him with the robbery as an active participant. After several days of unproductive watchfulness at the city residences of Edwards' relatives, it became apparent that something more decisive would have to be attempted. From the reports of the operatives who had been detailed upon this part of the investigation, it seemed evident that the inmates had become suspicious of the fact that their movements were being made the subject of espionage, and it was resolved to adapt another system of operation, and endeavor to have one of my men enter the family, and by some means establish a friendly footing with its members. By this means he would be enabled, while unsuspected, to learn of the movements of the people whom he was watching. I did not have far to seek for a man who would fully answer the purpose I had in view, and one who would succeed if success were possible. I had tried him in several operations where this kind of work was necessary, and he had invariably accomplished what had been delegated to him to perform. I therefore called Harry Vinton into my office, and stated to him the nature of the mission upon which he was to be sent. He was a handsome, jolly, quick-witted and intelligent young fellow, who had been with me for a long time. Entering my employment as an office boy, and evincing a decided task and talent for the profession of a detective, he had continued in my service, until at this time he was quite an adept in his particular line, and many a successful operation had been largely due to his intelligent efforts, while far removed from the directing eye of myself or my superintending assistants. His manners were frank and easy, and among the ladies he was a general favorite, therefore, I concluded to intrust him with the task of obtaining admission into the residence of the sister of Edwards, on Logan Place. Our operatives had reported that at this house there was employed, in the capacity of domestic, a young and handsome girl, whose conduct as far as could be judged was exemplary in the highest degree, and informing Vinton of this fact, William inquired if he thought he could manage it successfully. A merry twinkle shone in Vinton's eyes for a moment and then he answered: "I think I can, sir; and I am willing to make the attempt." "Very well," replied William, laughing. "Only look out for yourself. I hear she is a very charming young girl, and you may find yourself in earnest before you are aware of it." "Perhaps I may," said Vinton, "and perhaps I might not do better than that if I tried." "All right," said William; "I will not burden you with instructions at present, and you will proceed according to your own judgment, only remember what we want to discover, and succeed if you can." With these words Vinton took his departure. A few days passed uneventfully by and no report came from Vinton. He was evidently looking over the ground, and as undue haste would avail nothing in a matter of this kind William forbore to push him. Vinton, however, had not been idle, and his inquiries had developed the fact that the young servant of Mrs. Andrews was a regular attendant at church on Sunday afternoon, when she was allowed her liberty from her domestic duties. The following Sunday, therefore, found him wending his way toward the church. The day was bright and balmy, and the streets were thronged with pedestrians all bedecked in their Sunday attire, and apparently enjoying to the full their day of rest. Vinton reached the church, a magnificent structure, with its many spires glistening in the rays of the sun, and its chime of bells which were ringing out their harmonious cadences upon the air. He had been fortunate to find among his acquaintances a young man who also attended this church, and in his company he repaired to the sacred edifice, and joined in the services of the hour. When the last hymn had been sung and the congregation had been dismissed, Vinton and his companion hurried out to the sidewalk, where they could observe all who came out. Soon the doors were filled with little groups of men and women, all exchanging friendly greetings, and indulging in pleasant gossip before seeking their homes, and to the intense delight of Vinton, he noticed among a company of young ladies, the face and form of Mary Crilly, the pretty servant of the sister of Newton Edwards. Finding his gaze riveted upon this group, his companion lightly pulled him by the arm, exclaiming: "What's the matter, Vinton. Has Mary Crilly captivated your senses?" "I don't know who you allude to, but there is one of the prettiest girls I have seen for a long time." "I know who _you_ mean, though," said his companion laughingly, "and she is one of the nicest girls I know. Although she is simply a servant, she is both pretty, intelligent and industrious." "Do you know her?" asked Vinton, both delighted and surprised. "Certainly I do," answered his companion; "her name is Mary Crilly, and she is living with a family on Logan Place." "Can't you introduce me?" inquired Vinton anxiously. "Yes, if you want me to; that's my sister she is talking to now, they are fast friends, and Mary will probably spend the evening at our house. Come along, and perhaps you will lose your heart." The apples had certainly fallen right into his lap, and fortune had favored him this time, if never before. Stepping up with his friend, Vinton was soon made acquainted with the pretty young domestic, and in a short time afterward was walking by her side in the direction of his friend's house, where Mary was to spend the afternoon and evening. Strange as it may appear, young Vinton, when not on duty, associated freely with his companions, not one of whom suspected the business in which he was engaged. They only knew that he was employed in an office "down town," and that frequently he was required to be absent from the city for weeks. In a large city, however, there is not the same inclination to inquire about the private affairs of one's neighbors, and hence he had been able, for prudential reasons, to avoid announcing his real occupation, and was not compelled to make a social hermit of himself because of his profession. Being pressed to remain at the house of his friend, Vinton cordially accepted the situation, and devoted himself to the fair Miss Crilly so assiduously that he soon was in high favor with that young lady. After an enjoyable afternoon, he had the pleasure of escorting Miss Crilly to her home, and when he left her at her door, he was gratified to receive an invitation to call again, which he joyfully accepted, and resolved to take advantage of at an early date. Thus far we had been successful; we had obtained a photograph of Edwards, which had been promptly recognized. We had learned from his wife that he was hiding in the state of New York; and we had reliable men carefully posted in such a manner that in a very short time definite information must assuredly be obtained. CHAPTER IX. Waiting and Watching--Two Letters--Newton Edwards' Hiding-Place Discovered. Harry Vinton continued his attentions to the fair young domestic, and in a few days he invited her to accompany him to the theater. Edwards' sister, Mrs. Andrews, was present when this invitation was extended, and having formed a very favorable opinion of my good-looking operative, she at once consented, and Mary blushingly signified her inclination to accept his escort. His deportment toward Mrs. Andrews was most deferential and polite, and in a very short time he had quite won her kindly regard. This, of course, was precisely what he was most desirous of accomplishing, and he improved every opportunity that offered to ingratiate himself into the good opinion of Mary's mistress. So agreeably and gentlemanly did he conduct himself that ere a week had elapsed he was quite graciously received, not only by the pretty young servant girl, but by the members of the family as well. Mrs. Andrews, who appeared to be a kind-hearted lady, although seemingly oppressed with some trouble, which was not made apparent, was deeply interested in Mary's welfare, and had taken especial pains to cultivate Vinton's acquaintance. This was done evidently with the view of satisfying herself as to the sincerity of his intentions toward the girl, and to advise with her in the event of her discovering that he was an unworthy suitor for her hand. Vinton lost no opportunity to advance his friendly footing in the family, and frequently offered his services to Mrs. Andrews in the way of performing trifling commissions for her, which he could execute while on his way to and from his daily labor. From Mary, Vinton learned that the family were in much distress regarding a brother of Mrs. Andrews, but what it was she could not tell. He also learned that this brother (who was none other than Newton Edwards), and his wife had resided with the family for some time, but that Mrs. Andrews was very unfriendly to the young woman, and scarcely treated her with the respect which was due to her brother's wife. The young lady was very unhappy, Mary said, and several times she had seen her weeping bitterly in her room. Thus matters continued until on one Saturday morning, but a short time previous to this, the brother came home intoxicated, and abused his wife in a dreadful manner, and after ordering her to return to her family, had left the house, and had not been seen since. "What has become of the young lady?" inquired Vinton, after he had expressed his sympathy for her unfortunate condition. "Oh, her brother came for her that very afternoon, and after expressing his mind pretty freely to Mrs. Andrews, he took her to his home, somewhere away from the city." "Did her husband go away, too?" asked Vinton. "Yes, he went about the same time, and has not been here since." "Do the people in the house know where he is?" inquired Vinton. "I don't think they do," answered the girl, "and they are very much worried about him. There was a letter came from some one the other day, and ever since that time Mrs. Andrews has been in great trouble. She does not tell me anything about it, but I think it is about her brother." "That's very strange, isn't it?" "Yes, and what is more so," answered the girl, "for several days past there have been several men about the neighborhood who are strangers, and Mrs. Andrews is very much frightened about it. She is afraid to go out of the house, and seems almost afraid to move." "Does she think they have anything to do with her?" asked Vinton, surprisedly. "Oh, I don't know about that; but it is a very unusual thing to have strange men loitering about our neighborhood, and she feels very nervous about it." Vinton expressed his profound sympathy for the unfortunate family, and without hinting any suspicion that anything of a criminal nature had occurred, he parted from the young lady and returned to his home. A few evenings after this, Vinton again called upon Mary Crilly, and while he was conversing with her, Mrs. Andrews came into the room. "Mr. Vinton," said she, "before you go, I want to give you a couple of letters to post for me, if it is not too much trouble." "Certainly not," he replied, "anything I can do for you, Mrs. Andrews, will be cheerfully done by me, I assure you." "Thanks," said the lady, "I will have them ready before you leave, and would like to have them posted this evening." "I will attend to it, madam," said Vinton respectfully. After passing a pleasant hour with Mary, Mrs. Andrews returned, and handed Vinton two letters which he placed in his pocket without looking at the addresses, a proceeding which he noticed gave Mrs. Andrews some degree of pleasure. After a few moments' further talk he took his leave, and hastened to the agency. Here he was fortunate enough to find my son William, and he immediately produced the two letters and laid them upon the desk. "I don't know whether there is anything in these or not," said he, "but I thought I had better let you see them." William took up the two envelopes, and looked at their addresses. With a start of surprise, he read the superscriptions. One of them was addressed to "William Amos, McDonald, New York," and the other to "Newton Edwards, Denver, Colorado, care Windsor Hotel." Here was a dilemma! Could it be possible that Newton Edwards, knowing that the detectives were upon his track, would continue to use his own proper name, and have letters addressed to him in that open manner? This was certainly a most foolhardy thing for a sensible man to do, who was seeking to evade the officers of justice. Was it not more reasonable to think that Mrs. Andrews, taking alarm at the possibility of the actions of herself and family being watched, and being fully aware of the crime her brother had committed, would be advised to direct her letter to him under an assumed name? A glance at the inside of these neat little envelopes would have satisfied all doubts upon the question, but with a delicate regard for the privacy of individual correspondence, William would not have opened them for any consideration. "This is very clever," said he; "but I am afraid Mrs. Andrews is not quite sharp enough for us this time. However, we will sleep upon the matter, and see what will turn up by to-morrow." The next morning all doubts were set at rest. Mr. Warner, my son William and myself, were seated in my office discussing this question. We were unanimous in our opinion that the letter addressed to Newton Edwards was a decoy; and with Everman's information before us, that Edwards was hiding somewhere in New York state, which began with a "Mac," all of us were convinced that the second letter alone was deserving of serious attention. While we were thus debating the question, the mail brought us a report from William Everman at Woodford, that settled all doubts. Mrs. Edwards, he stated, had been seen to mail a letter that evening, and after a serious effort, Everman had obtained a glance at the address. It was as follows: William Amos, McDonald, New York. "That settles it!" said I; "send at once to McDonald, and my word for it, Edwards will be found." Whether I prophesied true or not, will soon be seen. CHAPTER X. The Burglar Tracked to His Lair--The Old Stage Driver--A Fishing Party--A Long Wait--A Sorrowful Surprise--The Arrest of Newton Edwards. Our plans were soon completed for a visit to the place indicated by the address upon the two letters. In the meantime, however, I had telegraphed to the police officials at Denver, and learned from them that no such person as Newton Edwards had been about that place, or was known there at all. They also promised that if any one called for a letter addressed to that name they would arrest him at once and inform us immediately. McDonald, I soon learned, was a little village in the central part of New York, remotely situated, and with no railroad or telegraph facilities of any kind. An excellent hiding-place for a fugitive certainly, particularly, as I suspected, if he had relatives residing there. Far away from the swift and powerful messengers of steam and electricity, he might safely repose in quiet seclusion until the excitement had died away and pursuit was abandoned. Such places as these afford a secure harbor for the stranded wrecks of humanity, and many a fleeing criminal has passed years of his life in quiet localities, where he was removed from the toil and bustle, and the prying eyes of the officers of the law in the more populous cities and towns. Two men were selected for this journey, and their preparations were soon made. That evening they were flying over the ground in the direction of the little hamlet, where they were hopeful of finding the man they were seeking. As an additional precaution, and fearing that Edwards might not remain in McDonald for any length of time, I telegraphed to my son, Robert A. Pinkerton, at New York city, to also repair, as soon as possible, to that place, and if Edwards was there to arrest him at once, and await the arrival of my operatives from Chicago. Immediately upon the receipt of this message, Robert left New York city by the earliest train, and without event, arrived at the station nearest to the village of McDonald, which he learned was about twelve miles distant. Here he was obliged to take a stage coach, and after a long, hot and fatiguing journey of several hours, he arrived about nightfall at the sleepy little village, which was his point of destination. By making inquiries of the stage-driver in a careless manner, and without exciting any suspicion, he learned that there was a constable at that place, and on arriving, he immediately sought out this important official. From him Robert learned that there was a strange young man stopping with an old farmer about two miles out of the village, who had been there several days, and who was represented as a nephew to the old gentleman. Upon showing him the photograph of Edwards, he recognized it at once, and signified his readiness to render any service in the matter which might be required of him. After disclosing as much as he deemed advisable to the constable, whose name was Daniel Bascom, Robert gladly accepted his hospitality for the night, and feeling very tired and weary after his hard journey, he retired to rest, and slept the sleep of the just, until he was awakened in the morning by his hospitable entertainer. Springing from his bed, and looking out at his window, he saw that the sun was just peeping over the hills in the east, and throwing its first faint rays over the beautiful landscape that was spread before him, lighting up hill and dale with the roseate but subdued splendor of its morning beams. After partaking of a hearty breakfast, Robert and the village constable matured their plans of operation. As a well-dressed city young gentleman might occasion some curiosity in the village, and as young Edwards might take alarm at the unexpected appearance of a stranger in that retired locality, it was decided to make some change in Robert's apparel. The constable therefore very kindly offered him a suit of his clothing, which as the two men were nearly of the same size, and the articles slightly worn, answered the purpose admirably, and in a few moments Robert was transformed into a good-looking countryman, who was enjoying a short holiday after the labors of harvesting, which were now over. In company with Mr. Bascom, the constable, Robert sauntered into the village. It was a beautiful morning; the air was delightfully fresh and cool, and the rays of the sun danced and glistened upon the dew-drops which sparkled upon every tree and flower. The feathered songsters filled the air with their sweet melodies, and nature with all its gladsome beauty was spread before him. Such a feeling of rest and thorough enjoyment came over him, that it was with an effort, he was able to shake off the pleasures of the hour, and bring himself to the disagreeable business in hand. After a short walk they approached the general store of the little village, which was the lounging-place of all the farmers for miles around. When they arrived they found a motley gathering assembled to witness the great event of the day in this town, the departure of the stage-coach, and Robert was speedily introduced as a relative of Mr. Bascom, who had came to McDonald to spend a few days. The mail coach was an important institution in McDonald, and was regarded as the great medium of communication between that place and the great world outside. Every morning at precisely the same hour the coach departed, and every evening with the same regard for punctuality the old time-worn vehicle rolled up before the platform in front of the store, to the intense delight and admiration of the assembled crowd. For nearly forty years had this identical old coach performed this journey, and the same old driver had drawn the reins and cracked his whip over the flanks--I was about to say, of the same old horses. This, however, could not have been so, although the sleepy-looking, antiquated animals that were now attached to the lumbering old yellow coach, looked as if they might have done duty for fully that length of time. Two young men were already seated in the stage, and their luggage was securely stowed away in the boot. The postmaster--the village storekeeper filled that responsible position--was busily engaged in making up the mail, and old Jerry, the fat good-natured old driver, was laughing and joking with the by-standers, as he awaited the hour for departure. As Robert stepped upon the platform he bestowed a hasty, though searching glance at the two men in the coach, and to his relief found that neither of them was the man he wanted, and he quietly stepped back and watched the proceedings that were going on around him. The postmaster appeared at last, mail-sack in hand, which he consigned to Jerry's care, and that burly individual clambered up to his place as gracefully as his big body and exceedingly short legs would permit. Seating himself upon his box, he gathered up his reins and shouted a good-natured farewell to the crowd. A quick and vigorous application of the whip awakened the dozing horses so suddenly that they started up with a spasmodic jerk which nearly threw the old fellow from his perch. By a desperate effort, however, he maintained his seat, but his broad-brimmed hat went flying from his bald head and rolled to the ground, scattering in its fall his snuff-box, spectacles and a monstrous red bandanna handkerchief. This little episode called forth a peal of laughter from the by-standers, in which the old man heartily joined. "Stick to 'em, Jerry!" cried one, "too much oats makes them animals frisky," while another hastened to pick up the several articles and restore them to their owner. Jerry wiped the great drops of perspiration from his bald, shining pate, as he replied: "Them hosses are a leetle too high fed, I'll admit, but I'll take some of the vinegar out of 'em afore night, or my name ain't Jerry Hobson." Everything being now in readiness, he again spoke to his steeds, and this time without mishap, the lumbering old vehicle rattled away on its journey. The little crowd gradually dispersed and soon left Robert and the constable alone with the store-keeper. "I didn't see old Ben Ratcliffe around this morning," said Mr. Bascom to John Todd, the store-keeper. "No," answered that individual; "he was here last evening, and said if the weather was fine he was going with his nephew over to the lake, fishing." "That accounts for it, then," said the constable; "I don't think he has ever missed a day for ten years before." "No, I don't think he has; but that young Mr. Amos, who is stopping here with him, is very fond of fishing, and the old man promised to take him over to Pine Lake this morning, so 'Uncle Ben' missed the mail for once." After a short conversation with the store-keeper upon general matters, the two men took their leave. It seemed very evident that as yet there was no suspicion on the part of Edwards, as to the discovery of his hiding-place, and here in fancied safety, surrounded by nature in all its beauty, with affectionate relatives, the young burglar was enjoying himself as heartily as though no cares were oppressing him, and no thought of detection ever troubled his mind. The uncle of young Edwards, it was learned, was a general favorite about the country. A good-natured, honest old farmer, who had lived there from boyhood, and was known to all the farmers and their families for miles around. Even in his old age, for he was long past sixty now, he cherished his old love for gunning and fishing, and held his own right manfully among those who were many years his junior. It was decided, as a matter of precaution, that they should call at the house of Uncle Ben, in order to ascertain whether he and his nephew had really gone fishing, and to that end the constable harnessed up his horses, and in a few minutes they were on their way to the old farm-house, which stood at the end of a long shady lane leading off from the main road. [Illustration: The Robbery of the Geneva Bank.] Driving up to the gate, the constable alighted and approached the house, while Robert remained seated in the buggy. In a few moments he returned, and stated that Mrs. Ratcliffe, the good farmer's wife, had informed him that her husband and nephew had gone off before daylight to a lake about five miles distant, and they would not return until late in the evening. It was deemed advisable not to attempt to follow them, as their appearance at the lake might give the young man alarm, and as they were not sure of any particular place to find them, they concluded to quietly await their return. They accordingly drove back to the village, and Robert returned to the constable's house to dinner. In the afternoon the two operatives whom I had sent from Chicago arrived, having been driven over by private conveyance. Without publicly acknowledging them, Robert gave them to understand that he would meet them at the house of the constable, and upon repairing thither they were duly informed of what had taken place, and instructed as to the plans proposed for that evening. Nothing of any note transpired during the afternoon, and after sundown the party started out upon their errand. Night soon came on, throwing its sable mantle over the earth, the sounds of the busy day were hushed, and all the world seemed wrapped in the tranquil stillness of a summer night. The stars, in countless numbers, were twinkling and sparkling in the blue heavens above, while the new moon, like a silver crescent, shed its soft light upon a scene of rare beauty and quiet loveliness. Arriving within a short distance of the old farmer's house, the horses and buggy were secreted in a little grove of trees that skirted the main road, and the men stationed themselves in convenient hiding-places along the lane, to await the return of the farmer and his nephew. From the appearance of the farm-house, it was evident that the fishing-party had not yet returned, and they settled themselves down to a patient, silent waiting, which, as the hours wore on, grew painfully tedious and tiresome. At last, long past midnight, and after they had begun to despair of accomplishing the object of their visit, they heard a faint noise, as though footsteps were approaching. "Hist!" cried Robert, "some one is coming." They listened intently, and gradually the noises grew louder and more distinct. As they came nearer the constable distinctly recognized the voice of the old farmer, who was evidently relating some humorous story to his companion, who was laughing heartily. The merry tones of this young man's laugh were as clear and ringing as though he had not a care in the world, and had not committed a crime against the laws of the state. No one, to have heard that hearty, melodious burst of merriment, would have supposed for an instant that it came from the lips of a fugitive from justice. They were now nearly opposite to the crouching figures by the roadside. The old farmer had evidently reached the climax of his story, for both of them broke out again into a fresh burst of violent laughter that awoke the echoes round about them. The laugh suddenly died away, the merriment ceased abruptly, as a dark form emerged from the roadside, and the muzzle of a revolver was placed close to the cheek of the young man, while Robert called out menacingly: "Newton Edwards, I want you!" With an exclamation of pain, the young man dropped his fishing-pole and the bucket of fish he was carrying, while a chill ran through his frame, and he shivered like an aspen in the grasp of the determined detective. The others had now come forward, and as soon as he could recover from his astonishment, the old farmer cried out: "What does this mean?" "It means," said Robert coolly, "that we have arrested your nephew for burglary, and that he must go with us." [Illustration: "Newton Edwards, I want you!"] The moon just then came peeping from behind a cloud, and fell upon the haggard face and wild eyes of the hapless prisoner, who until then had not uttered a word. "It is all a mistake, Uncle Ben," faltered he; "but there is no use of making a denial here; if the blow has fallen, I must meet it like a man." The old man, with tears in his honest old eyes, gazed for a moment at his miserable relative, and then, putting his sturdy old arms around him, he turned to the officers: "Gentlemen, I suppose it is your duty. I have no fault to find. If the boy has done wrong, he must suffer; but bring him to the house now, and in the morning you can go your way." His offer was accepted, and directing the constable to return to his own home with his carriage, the others walked slowly up the lane toward the house. But few words were spoken during the night. The old farmer and his wife retired to their room, and during the few hours that remained, their voices could be heard as they sorrowfully discussed the painful situation. Securing Edwards' effects, which consisted of a small portmanteau, they learned from the honest old farmer, whose word was as true as gold, that nothing else belonging to the young man was in the house. All attempts to induce the young man to speak were unavailing, and they finally let him alone, and during the long hours he maintained a dogged silence. The detectives patiently awaited the dawning of the morn. At last the eastern sky was tinged with red, and the faint beams of a new day came streaming in through the windows of the old-farm house; and then Edwards, after bidding a tearful adieu to his aged and stricken relatives, and accompanied by the officers, left the house and proceeded on his way to McDonald, to commence his journey to Chicago. CHAPTER XI. Newton Edwards brought back to Chicago--Attempt to Induce a Confession--A Visit to his Relatives--The Burglar Broken Down. It was in the gray dawn of the morning when the party arrived at the house of the constable, Daniel Bascom. Here breakfast was prepared, and after full justice had been done to a bountiful repast, an examination of the effects of Newton Edwards was commenced. Ever since his arrest the young man had maintained a rigid silence, not deigning to notice the detectives in any manner whatever. He partook of his breakfast in a dazed, dreamy fashion, scarcely eating anything, and pushing back his plate as though unable to force himself to partake of food. In his satchel was discovered a roll of bank-bills, which on being counted was found to contain a trifle over three thousand five hundred dollars. Edwards gazed at this money with a greedy, frightened look, like a wild beast at bay, but did not utter a word, as Robert placed it in a large envelope and secured it about his person. "Will you be kind enough to inform me," said Robert, when this was completed, "how you come to have so much money about you?" After a moment's hesitation, Edwards replied, doggedly: "Yes, sir, I will. It is the proceeds of the sale of some property that I owned in the west." "Very well," replied Robert, finding it useless, at present, to attempt to induce him to tell the truth. "You will have ample opportunity to satisfy a court and jury upon that point in a very short time." Nothing farther was said to him until the time arrived for departing, and then the party, with their prisoner, walked into the village in order to take the stage for the railroad station at Birmingham. Before leaving Mr. Bascom's, however, Robert handsomely remunerated the energetic constable for his valuable assistance, and after thanking him warmly for his active and cordial aid in our behalf, requested his company to the village. As they approached the store, where the stage-coach was in waiting, they found an unusual crowd awaiting their appearance. The news of the robbery and arrest had by some means become known, and the eager faces of nearly three score of curiosity-seekers greeted them upon their arrival. Old Jerry himself seemed to be impressed with an idea of additional importance, as though he was about to be called upon to perform a noble service of great responsibility to his country, in assisting to convey such a distinguished company in his old coach. The farmers gathered in little groups about the platform, and conversed in low tones, as they furtively regarded with sentiments almost approaching a respectful awe, the unwonted presence of the detectives and their charge. There was an utter absence of the boisterous hilarity which had been manifested on the preceding morning, and one might have thought that they had assembled for the purpose of officiating at a funeral, so thoroughly subdued and solemn did they all appear. The journey to the railway station was made in due time, and without accident, and the party were speeding on their way to Chicago. Robert forbore to press the young man any further, and let him severely alone during the entire day. During the night they all retired to their sleeping berths, Edwards being securely handcuffed to one of my men, and occupying the same berth with him. In the morning, Robert noticed a slight change in the demeanor of Edwards, and thought he detected a disposition to converse. He did not encourage him, however, preferring by all means that the advances should be made by the young man himself. Nor did he have long to wait. They procured their breakfast in the dining car, and after the meal was concluded, Robert, without uttering a word, handed Edwards a cigar, which he very gratefully accepted. After sitting quietly smoking for a few moments, he turned to Robert and asked: "Mr. Pinkerton, how did you discover that I was in McDonald?" "In the same manner in which we have discovered many other things in connection with this robbery," replied Robert. "I may say, however, that the man we came for was William R. Amos; do you know anything about such a person?" As Robert spoke he gazed scrutinizingly at the face before him, and Edwards winced perceptibly under his glance. "I can explain that all right," he at length replied, with considerable embarrassment. "I got into some trouble at home with a young lady, and thought it best to leave town for a short time." "Edwards," said Robert sternly, "falsehood and impudence will not help you in this case, and I wish to hear no more. I have only to say that we have evidence enough against you to insure a conviction, and your only hope lies in making your sentence as light as possible." "How so?" he asked. "By telling all you know about this matter. One of your accomplices, we have got dead to rights, and if you won't tell perhaps he will." "Who have you got?" inquired Edwards, anxiously. "That I cannot tell you now; our business is with you for the present. I want you to consider this matter carefully. You are a young man yet, and though you have thrown away golden opportunities in the past, you have yet an opportunity to reform your ways, and by assisting the officers of justice in recovering the money which you and your companions have stolen, and in arresting the rest of your associates, you may receive the clemency of the court, and perhaps benefit yourself materially." Edwards was silent for a long time after this, and it was evident that he was seriously considering the matter. The words of the detective had made an impression upon him, but with the craftiness of an old offender, he was debating a plan by which he might turn his admissions into account for himself. At length he turned to Robert and asked: "Will I be able to escape if I tell what I know?" "I cannot promise that. But you are aware that the giving of information which leads to the capture of your associates and the recovery of the balance of this money, will work to your advantage very decidedly in the mind of the judge." "Very well," said Edwards, with a dogged sullenness, "your advice is very good, but I have no confession to make." "Take your own course," said Robert, carelessly. "My advice was for your own good, and as you don't seem willing to accept it, I have nothing more to say." Although he had not accomplished very much as yet, Robert was still hopeful of inducing Edwards to unburden himself; but he resolved to attempt nothing further with him until they arrived in Chicago, where he could be managed more successfully by those who were more fully conversant with the facts in the case. He well knew that we already possessed testimony amply sufficient to convict Edwards of participating in the robbery, but what we most desired was to obtain information concerning his partners in the deed. However, he decided to allow him ample time for reflection and said no more to him upon the subject until they reached Chicago, when he was at once conducted to the agency. A consultation was immediately held in order to devise the best means to be pursued to induce Edwards to reveal who his partners really were. William at once resolved upon a plan which he was hopeful would lead to good and immediate results. Calling a carriage, he directed the driver to take him to the residence of Edwards' sister, Mrs. Andrews, on Logan Place. On arriving at the house, he found that lady and her daughter at home, and he was immediately ushered into the parlor by the pretty servant, Mary Crilly. Without unnecessary preliminary, William informed the lady that we had succeeded in arresting Edwards for the robbery of the Geneva Bank, and that he was now in custody. He also stated that from information which he had obtained, he was led to believe that his family were perfectly aware of his actions in this matter, if indeed they had not aided him in accomplishing it. At this point both mother and daughter burst into tears and sobbingly denied any knowledge of Edwards' crime until after he had committed it, and then they could not act as his accusers. Mrs. Andrews finally urged him to visit Edwards' brother, who resided on Freeman street, and hinted that he could tell something about the matter, although she asserted he took no part in it, and knew nothing about it until it had been completed. Taking it for granted that they had told him all they knew about the robbery, William next hurried to the place of business of Edwards' brother, whom he was fortunate enough to find in his office, and disengaged. He at once stated who he was, and what he wanted to know. Mr. Edwards was at first disposed to deny all knowledge of the matter, but on William's informing him of his brother's arrest, and hinting that he had made a partial confession, he changed his mind and became quite communicative. The brother then stated that for years he had been troubled with Newton's bad habits and extravagances, although he had never known him to commit a crime until the robbery of the bank at Geneva. He remembered hearing his brother boast once when he was intoxicated, that he could get plenty of money without work; but as Newton gambled a great deal, he imagined that he had alluded to that means of obtaining his money. "Well," said William abruptly, "I want to know what you know about this robbery." "I will tell you all I know," answered Mr. Edwards. "Some three or four weeks before I heard of this robbery, Newton was at my house, and was intoxicated. He boasted in his maudlin way that he had an opportunity to rob a bank, and that the cashier was a party to the affair; but I attributed all this to the wild utterances of a drunken man, and paid no further attention to it. On the Saturday night before the robbery took place, however, he came to my house during my absence, and had a companion with him, for whom he made a bed upon my parlor floor. In the morning they went away, and I have not seen him since. My wife informed me afterward that Newton, who was drunk at the time, had told her that the man with him was the one that was to help him to rob the bank, and that she had then ordered both of them out of the house. I did not at any time know where the bank was located, nor did I ever seriously entertain the idea of his attempting anything of the kind; but when I heard of the robbery of the Geneva bank, I at once suspected my brother, and although humiliated deeply at the thought, I could not take any step that would tend to bring disgrace and ruin upon my own family." Without entering into the question of family honor, William inquired: "Do you know the man who was with him at your house, and who was to assist in this robbery?" "No," answered Mr. Edwards. "I never heard his name, and all that I ever knew of him was that he came from Denver, Colorado." "Can you describe him?" asked William. "Yes, I think I can," said Mr. Edwards, and he then gave a description of the man, which agreed perfectly with that of Edwards' companion on the day of the robbery. Having now obtained all the information that was possible to be gained from this source, William returned to the agency, and entered the room where Edwards was confined. He found the young man sitting with his face buried in his hands and evidently in sore distress. "Mr. Edwards," said William in his quick, imperious manner, "I have just had an interview with your brother and sister, who have told me all they know about this matter. You will readily see what little hope there is left for you if you persist in keeping from us the information which we desire. Whether you confess or not will make but little difference to us now, as sooner or later your associates will be caught, and your refusal to help us will only make it the harder for you. If you don't confess, Eugene Pearson will." As William uttered this last sentence Edwards started to his feet, and exclaimed: "My God, you know more than I thought! I will tell what I know." At last we had succeeded in breaking him down, and there was a gleam of satisfaction in William's eyes as he requested the presence of Mr. Warner and my son Robert, while the story was being told. CHAPTER XII. The Confession of Newton Edwards--The foul Plot fully Explained--Eugene Pearson's Guilt clearly Proven--A Story of Temptation and Crime. The confession of Newton Edwards revealed a history of undiscovered crime that had been carried on for years. Beginning at first in wild and extravagant conduct, which consumed the liberal salary which he received, and then led to the incurring of debts which became pressing and impossible of payment by legitimate means; then followed a thirst for gambling, in which large returns were promised for small investments, and failing in this, came the temptation to crime and his consequent ruin. How certain it is, that once the downward step is taken, the rest follows swiftly and inevitably, and ruin and disgrace tread swiftly and surely upon the heels of folly and crime. Newton Edwards began life under the brightest aspects. Of respectable parentage, he had enjoyed the benefits of a liberal education, and his first essay in business had been both fortunate and profitable. Beloved by his family, and admired by a numerous circle of friends, he deliberately gave himself up to a life of excess and dissipation, and the end was soon to be a dark and gloomy prison. I will, however, leave him to tell his own story, and the moral of it is so plain that he who runs may read. We were all seated around the fallen young man awaiting his recital, and after a few moments of hesitation and embarrassment he began: "I will tell you all there is to relate, and in order that you may fully understand my present situation, I will commence with the first temptations, which finally led to the commission of this crime." "Yes," said William, encouragingly, "tell us all." "The robbery of the Geneva bank was planned more than six months ago," continued Edwards, "but its real origin dates back more than a year. At that time I was traveling for a large house in the city, and was receiving a liberal salary. I had a large trade, and my employers were very generous with me. I cannot tell you how I drifted into habits of dissipation, but it was not very long before I found it a very easy matter to dispose of my salary almost as soon as received, and was forced to borrow money of my friends to enable me to maintain myself at all. From that I was tempted to gamble, and being fortunate at the outset, I soon found, as I imagined, an easy way to make money without serious labor; but I speedily discovered that my first success was doomed to be of short life, and I began to lose more money than I had ever won. It was after one of my losing experiences at the gaming-table, and when I was hard pressed for money to meet my immediate wants, that I visited Geneva, for the purpose of selling goods to some of my customers in that place. At that time I made the acquaintance of a young man by the name of Horace Johnson, who was a practicing dentist of that town. Like myself, he was a wild and reckless fellow, given to dissipation and drink, and who, like myself, had been able to conceal the fact from his family and their friends. Johnson's prevailing vice was an uncontrollable passion for gambling, and he had been addicted to this practice for a long time. I afterward understood that he had acquired this habit while attending a dental college in St. Louis, where he had become quite an expert in the handling of cards, and was well posted in the tricks so frequently resorted to by gamblers to fleece their unsuspecting victims. When he returned from college and established his business in his native town, he became the leader of a set of fast young men, and his office was the nightly resort of his associates, where they played and gambled frequently, until the morning hours drove them to their homes. "As I have said, I met Johnson at this time, and on my succeeding visit I was introduced by him to Eugene Pearson, the assistant cashier of the bank. That evening we spent together at Johnson's office in drinking and card-playing. Johnson stated that there was an excellent opportunity to make money offered, if we were disposed to accept it. I asked him what it was, and he stated that there were quite a number of well-to-do merchants in the town who were in the habit of meeting in a room which they had furnished for the purpose, and where they played cards for small amounts and for amusement. "Johnson stated that we could readily make their acquaintance, and once introduced into their games, it would be an easy matter to induce them to play heavily, and then, from his knowledge of gamblers' tricks, we could win their money in spite of them. We all agreed to this, although Pearson declined to become an active player, because of his position in the bank. "On the next visit I made to Geneva, I remained over Sunday, and being taken to the club, we managed to win several hundred dollars before morning. This continued for some time, and always with the same success, and as a consequence I became more reckless in my expenditure of money than ever before, because I knew of a sure plan to replenish my pockets, when they were empty. Shortly after this, I received a letter from Johnson requesting me to come to Geneva as soon as possible, as he and Pearson had devised another scheme to raise money and wanted my assistance. Being hard pressed at that time, I responded as soon as I could, and in a few days found myself in Geneva, where I was heartily welcomed by both Johnson and Pearson. After supper we met in Johnson's office as usual, and then the plan was made known to me. At first I was startled by the daring proposition, which was nothing more or less than to rob Pearson's bank by means of forged checks. The checks, which had been already prepared by Pearson, were exhibited to me, and I was surprised at the cleverness of the forgery. It looked easy and safe, and I consented. The person selected as the victim was a rich farmer by the name of Henery Sharpless, whose accounts were only settled about twice a year, and consequently detection was not likely to follow very soon. After carefully comparing the forged checks with an old one that was genuine, I no longer hesitated and signified my readiness to try the experiment. "On the following day, therefore, I went to Johnson's office, and there put on a hickory shirt, a pair of coarse boots and pantaloons, and in a few minutes I was transformed into a veritable countryman. Johnson colored my face and hands with some preparation which made me appear like a tanned and sunburnt farmer, and thus equipped, I started for the bank. I was provided with two checks for three hundred dollars each, one of which was to be presented to the Geneva bank, when, if I experienced no trouble, I was to present the other at the Union National Bank, where also Mr. Sharpless kept an account. I had no difficulty whatever in obtaining the money, and after dividing it among the other two, I left town on the first train. I received two hundred dollars for my share, and the forgeries were not discovered until a long time had elapsed, and when it was almost impossible to obtain any information concerning them. To this day I don't believe that any of the officers of the two banks have the slightest idea as to how the thing was done. Soon after this forgery, Johnson left Geneva and located at St. Louis, where he still resides. Emboldened by the success of this first venture, Eugene Pearson, who was really the master-spirit in these later efforts, boldly proposed to rob the bank in which he was engaged, but this was something too audacious to be considered for a moment. At length, by dint of repeated suggestions, Johnson and myself began to give some consideration to the matter, and upon Pearson's assuring us of the perfect ease with which the robbery might be accomplished, we at last began to discuss various plans by which the bank might be robbed. Several ideas and propositions were discussed, but either through fear or some other consideration, they all fell through. "At last we decided upon the plan which was finally carried out. Johnson and myself were to come to Geneva disguised as much as possible, and after the business of the day was over, and the other officers had gone home, Pearson was to give us the signal that the coast was clear. We were then to enter the bank, the doors of which would be left open, and after securing the young lady and Pearson, we were to rob the vault and place them within it. In order that they might not suffer from their confinement, Pearson was to start the screws in the lock, so that there would be no difficulty in opening the vault, after giving us time to make good our escape. It was understood that there was about twenty thousand dollars in the vault, in gold, silver and notes, and Pearson was to take his share out in advance and hide it, so that no danger should be incurred in the attempt to divide it afterward. As the time approached for carrying this plan into effect, Johnson began to show signs of weakening, and finally declined to have anything to do with it, although he promised to make no disclosures regarding our movements, and to keep our secret inviolate. After Johnson's backing out we did not know what to do, and were just about abandoning the whole thing, when I came across an old traveling friend of mine in Chicago, who had been on a protracted spree, and who was without money and friends, in a strange city, and who came to me to borrow enough to get him home to Denver. The idea at once occurred to me to induce him to join us and in this I was successful, for he was in a desperate state, and anything that promised to furnish him with money would have been greedily accepted at that time. Even after this, however, I don't believe that either of us would have had the courage to carry out the scheme, if we had not continued our drinking, and I don't believe I was sober a single moment until after we had accomplished our object and the robbery was committed. How it was done, you all know, and it is not necessary for me to detail the particulars of an event which will overcast my whole life." As he ceased speaking, Edwards buried his face in his hands, and wept aloud. "Who was this man whom you procured to help you?" inquired William. Edwards hesitated for some time, as though he was loth to divulge the name of his companion, but finally he said: "His name is Thomas Duncan, and he was in the clothing business, in Denver, Colorado." "Now tell us how much money you took from the bank, and how it was divided?" asked Mr. Warner. "There is something about that that I cannot understand," replied Edwards. "From what Pearson told me, there must have been more than twenty thousand dollars in the vault, twelve thousand of which was in gold. The agreement was that Duncan, Pearson and myself were to have six thousand dollars apiece, and the balance was to be paid to Johnson for his silence. Pearson took his share out on the Saturday before the robbery, and when Duncan and I came to divide the money, we found that we were five thousand dollars short. There is only one solution I have to give for this, and that is that Pearson did not act fair with us, and took five thousand dollars in gold more than he was to have done." "Where did you and Duncan separate after the robbery?" asked William. "At Clinton, Iowa," was the reply. "Duncan went on toward Des Moines, while I made my way east, where I remained until you found me." Upon being questioned further, Edwards stated that when he met Duncan, he had a room in the lower part of the city, with a very respectable lady, who rented furnished apartments, and that when he left the city, having no money, he left his trunk and baggage in his room until he could settle for his rent. This was all that could be gained from Edwards at this time, and it must be confessed was most important. Pearson's guilt was fully proven, and we had a strong clew as to the identity of the third man in the robbery. It is true that he had more than a month the start of us, but we did not despair of finding him at last. In the meantime, much was to be speedily done. Edwards must be conveyed to Geneva at once, Johnson must be arrested at St. Louis, and we must pay our respects to Eugene Pearson as soon as possible. We must also start immediately upon the track of Thomas Duncan, and endeavor to trace him to his hiding-place. Everything was therefore made ready for the departure of Edwards, who was consigned to the care of two trusty operatives until evening, when they would take him to Geneva; and William forwarded a telegraphic message to Mr. Silby, at Geneva, to this effect: "WATCH THAT PACKAGE." CHAPTER XIII. Edwards Taken to Geneva--The Arrest of Eugene Pearson--His Confession--More Money Recovered--Dr. Johnson Arrested. As may be imagined, our detective labors were now but fairly commenced. We had, it is true, succeeded in capturing one of the active participants in the robbery, and in securing nearly four thousand dollars of the money that had been taken. We had also obtained information which would enable us to arrest two more of the parties who were connected with the affair, and perhaps secure an additional sum of money. The information which Edwards had given, however, was of vast importance to us, and enabled us to pursue our further search with a more intelligent knowledge of the parties interested, and with a more reasonable hope of eventual success. Our suspicions regarding Eugene Pearson had been fully sustained, and while it was a source of regret to us that we would thus prove beyond question the deep guilt of a trusted and respected employé of the bank, and would be compelled to shatter the false foundations of an honorable name, our duty in the premises was clear. Indeed, I have no hesitation in asserting that of all the parties connected with this burglary I had far less regard or sympathy with this deceitful and base-minded young scamp than for any of the others. If Edwards' story was reliable, Eugene Pearson was the arch conspirator of the entire affair, and no possible excuse could be offered for his dastardly conduct. His position in the bank was a lucrative one, and his standing in society of the highest. His family connections were of the most honorable character, while the affection of his employers for him, would certainly have appealed to his sense of honor, if he possessed any, so strongly that guilt ought to have been impossible. For Eugene Pearson there was no consideration of regard in my mind. He had deliberately, and without the slightest cause, violated the most sacred pledges of affection and duty, and had proven recreant to trusts, the very nature of which should have prevented a thought of wrong-doing. He was not dissipated. He did not drink to excess, and his part in the gambling operations of his friends had always resulted profitably to himself. He was a regular attendant at church, conducted himself in the face of all men as one incapable of wrong, and against whom no taint of suspicion could possibly attach. A veritable "wolf in sheep's clothing" was this dishonest man, and as such I felt that he richly deserved the fate that was so soon to overtake him. The day of his hypocrisy and dishonesty was soon to set, to be followed by a long night of ignominy and disgrace which is the inevitable result of such a course of crime as he had been guilty of. I cannot find words to express the detestation in which I regarded this smooth-faced liar and thief, who had outraged all the finer attributes of manhood, and, like the ungrateful dog, had bitten the hand that fed him. Before taking Edwards to Geneva, it was necessary to make some investigations with regard to Thomas Duncan, who as yet had completely eluded our search, and whose correct identity had until this time, been entirely unknown to us. William resolved, therefore, to improve the time remaining until evening, in making an investigation of the premises previously occupied by Duncan while he was in the city. Having obtained the exact location of this house, William and Robert repaired thither at once. They found it, as represented, a quiet, respectable house, and located in a neighborhood of unexceptionable reputation. Upon being admitted, they requested to see the lady of the house, who was a quiet, modest-looking widow lady of about fifty years of age. William introduced his brother as a Mr. Staunton, lately of Boston, who was desirous of obtaining a pleasant room in that locality, and who could furnish undoubted references as to respectability and promptness. They were shown several unoccupied rooms, and finally entered the one which had probably been occupied by Edwards' companion in the robbery, for here were two trunks packed and strapped, and apparently ready to be taken away. "This room," said the lady, as the two gentlemen noticed the trunks, "has been occupied by a gentleman who has left the city. These are his trunks, and he has ordered them to be sent to him." William had already approached near enough to notice that the lettering upon the trunks was "T. J. Duncan, Des Moines, Iowa," and he was convinced that thus far Edwards' revelations had been correct. "I once knew a man by that name," remarked William, carelessly. "He traveled in the west for a clothing firm in Philadelphia." "Oh!" said the lady, "this gentleman, I think, was in the same business, and perhaps he may be the one you knew?" "I would not be at all surprised," replied William. "Where is Mr. Duncan now, do you know?" "No," answered the lady, "nothing further than that he has ordered his baggage sent to Des Moines, Iowa." Finding that thus far Edwards had spoken truthfully, and that no further information could be elicited from this source, Robert promised to call again, and the two men withdrew. At the next corner they found two operatives, who had been directed to await their appearance, and William, after describing Duncan's trunks to them, ordered them to keep a sharp lookout for their removal, and to endeavor to follow them to their destination. This done, they returned to the agency and completed their arrangements for taking Edwards to Geneva that evening. Operative Everman, who had returned from Woodford, was directed to proceed at once to St. Louis, and effect the arrest of Dr. Johnson, the dentist, on a charge of forgery, and to convey him to Geneva as soon as possible. It may be stated in passing, that until the confession of Edwards was made, I had no knowledge whatever of the forged checks which he mentioned, and the bank had made no efforts to discover the perpetrators of that fraud, which had now so unexpectedly been brought to light. We had been very careful to keep the fact of Edwards' arrest a profound secret, and as yet, the officers of the bank and the peaceful community at Geneva were in entire ignorance of what had taken place. William had telegraphed to Mr. Silby, stating that he would be in Geneva that night, and requesting him to meet him at the train. About midnight, therefore, when they arrived with their charge, there was no excitement or bustle about the place, and even the wakeful and observant railroad men were unsuspicious of the arrival of one of the robbers. A carriage was procured and the party were rapidly driven to the city hall, where, to the surprise of the officials, Edwards was placed in confinement, charged with being a participant in the robbery of the Geneva bank. Fearing that the information would leak out before morning, and that Eugene Pearson would take fright and endeavor to dispose of his share of the proceeds, it was deemed advisable to go at once to his residence and arrest him. This was done as speedily and quietly as possible, and before the young man was aware of the danger he was in, he was our prisoner. I will not attempt to depict the grief and anger of the family of this unfortunate young man when the object of our visit was made known; but their resentment of our action was just what might have been expected from people who believed implicitly in the innocence of their child, and regarded any attempt to deprive him of his liberty as an unpardonable outrage. As respectfully, but as firmly as possible William stated his determination to arrest the young man, and informed them that every opportunity would be afforded him to defend himself, and to remove the stain upon his character when the proper time arrived. Eugene Pearson, the culprit, was the least disturbed of the party. His coolness was imperturbable. He flatly denied all knowledge of the robbery, and in the strongest terms, assured his weeping and grief-stricken relatives of his innocence. The arrest, however, was quietly accomplished, and Pearson was soon confined beneath the same roof which sheltered his associate in crime, Newton Edwards. Early the next morning the town was alive with people and the greatest excitement prevailed. The news of Eugene Pearson's arrest had spread far and wide, and a universal sentiment of indignation pervaded the whole community. Angry men gathered at the corners of the street, and threats of vengeance against the officers of my agency were loudly uttered. A lawless outrage had been committed by us, and the righteous indignation of an injured community refused to be appeased. The hotel where my men were stopping was besieged by the angry citizens, and our actions were denounced in the most belligerent manner. Eugene Pearson, in their opinion, was above suspicion; he was their ideal of a moral young man, his father was respected everywhere, and the base and unwarranted invasion of their home by my officers was an indignity which they were resolved they would not allow to pass unpunished. As the morning advanced the excitement increased, and several of the boldest of the angry citizens approached William, and in no complimentary terms expressed their contempt, not only for him individually, but for the methods which had been used to ferret out and apprehend men who were innocent of any wrong. Under ordinary circumstances William would have resented these insults, and that too in a manner that would have convinced them that he was fully able to defend himself; but realizing the importance of coolness and discretion at this critical juncture, he preserved his good humor, and securing their attention for a few moments, he requested them not to be too hasty in their actions. If Eugene Pearson was innocent, he stated, no serious harm had been done the young man; and if he was guilty, as he could prove in a short time, they would deeply regret the course they were now threatening to pursue. [Illustration: William requested them not to be too hasty in their actions.] In the meantime he had not been idle in his attempts upon the stoical firmness of Eugene Pearson himself, and at length the young burglar was broken completely down; he confessed his guilt, and promised to conduct the officers to the spot where he had hidden his share of the booty. In company therefore with two of the officers, he repaired to the barn in the rear of his father's house, and buried in the ground in the yard, they found a sack of coin amounting to the sum of six thousand dollars. [Illustration: Here they found a sack of coin amounting to the sum of six thousand dollars.] So far, so good. We had now captured two of the robbers, and had secured nearly one-half of the stolen money of the bank. It is needless to say that immediately following the confession of Eugene Pearson and the finding of the money he had stolen, the opinions of the previously enraged citizens underwent a decided change. If William had desired any evidence of the overwhelming triumph which he had achieved, the deportment of these disappointed men toward him would have fully satisfied him. No longer regarded as a ruthless invader of the privacy of honest homes, and guilty of outraging the finer feelings of humanity, he was everywhere received with the utmost respect and deference, and many apologies were offered for their inconsiderate conduct of a few hours before. And yet it must be recorded, that with this indisputable evidence of Eugene Pearson's guilty participation in the robbery, there yet remained many, who, unable to refute the damning proofs against him, were filled with a sympathetic sentiment of regard for their fallen idol, and their prevailing feelings were those of sorrow and regret. The majority of them, however, came up by scores, frankly acknowledged their mistake, and freely apologized for their actions, which under the circumstances, were shown to be so hasty and ill-timed. In a day or two after this, Dr. Johnson made his appearance, under the escort of William Everman; and the delectable trio were placed in separate cells to prevent any collusion between them prior to their examination. Johnson's arrest had been very easy of accomplishment. He was entirely unaware of what had transpired with the other two, and having had no active participation in the robbery, had imagined himself perfectly secure and had taken no means of escape. Everman, on his arrival at St. Louis, had, in accordance with my instructions, obtained the assistance of the chief of police of that city, who very cheerfully and cordially volunteered all the aid in his power. Two men were therefore detailed to accompany Everman in searching for Dr. Johnson, and it was nearly midnight before they succeeded in ascertaining definitely where he lived. Shortly after that hour, however, the detectives ascended the stoop of the doctor's residence and requested to see him. He appeared in a few minutes, and as he stood in the doorway, Everman quickly placed his hand upon his shoulder, and informed him that he was wanted at police headquarters. The doctor turned pale at this announcement, and requested an explanation of such an unusual proceeding; but Everman informed him that all explanations would be made in due time, and at the proper place. Trembling in every joint, the discomfited doctor obeyed, and in a few minutes was conveyed to the office of the chief, where he was closely examined, but refused to divulge anything in connection with the robbery of the Geneva bank, and asserted boldly his entire innocence of the charge. Despite his pleadings for delay he was brought to Geneva upon the next train, and in a short time three of the guilty parties were safely in custody. [Illustration: Everman quietly placed his hand upon the young man's shoulder, and informed him that he was wanted at police headquarters.] Our work had thus far been prompt and successful. We had captured the leaders of this gang, and had recovered nearly half of the stolen money. Much more, however, remained to be accomplished, and we determined that our efforts should not be relinquished until Duncan, the remaining member of this burglarious band, had been secured, and some clew to the remainder of the money had been obtained. CHAPTER XIV. Proceedings at Geneva--Speculations as to the Missing Five Thousand Dollars--John Manning Starts in Search of Thomas Duncan. The days which followed the arrest of the three young bank robbers were eventful ones in the history of Geneva. The three youthful offenders, now downcast and humiliated, were afforded a speedy hearing, and when the facts already adduced by us had been received, they were remanded to jail for trial at the next term of court. It is needless to say that the good citizens of the little town were shocked beyond expression at the unexpected results of our investigation. Both Pearson and Johnson had grown to manhood in their midst, and until this time no taint of suspicion had ever been urged against them. No thought of wrong-doing had ever attached to them, and no shadow had dimmed the luster of their fair fame. Now all was changed, and the irreproachable reputations of days gone by were shattered. Debased and self-convicted, they stood before the bar of justice, to answer for their crimes. Instead of being the objects of admiration, they were now receiving the well-merited scorn of those who had been their friends and neighbors. Scarcely past their majorities, and just stepping over the threshold of life, the future bright with promises and fruitful of golden experiences, they had recklessly thrown all to the winds, and now stood before their former friends with the brand of the felon upon their brows. No sadder spectacle could have been presented, and certainly none more full of warning to the careless youths who thronged the court-room, than the presence of the aged parents of these young men on the day of the hearing. Their cup of bitterness and sorrow was indeed full, and as they raised their tear-stained eyes to their children, there was not one present whose heart did not throb in sympathy for their misfortunes. More especially was this the case with the mother of Eugene Pearson. He was her idol; and until the very moment of his arrest, she had never known him to be guilty of aught that would bring the blush of shame to his cheek. Now, however, the awful revelation came, and the boy on whom she had lavished all the wealth of her true heart's affection was proven, before all the world, to be the blackest of ingrates, and a designing hypocrite and thief. Mr. Silby, too, was much affected by the discovery of Pearson's guilt. His affection and regard were so sincere and trustful, that, had he been his own son, he could not have been more painfully disappointed at discovering his cupidity. Another interview had been obtained with Edwards at Geneva, and he gave us some further particulars about the course which he and Duncan had taken after having robbed the bank. Shortly after leaving the city of Geneva, they made their way to the railroad, along the track of which they journeyed for some distance. The day was exceedingly warm, and the valise in which they were carrying the stolen money became very heavy and burdensome. Finding it impossible to proceed any further with such a heavy load, they decided to take out all of the money but a few sacks of silver, amounting altogether to about three hundred dollars. This they did, concealing the money about their persons, and then hiding the valise in a corn field which skirted the railroad track. Being furnished with a description of the locality, William proceeded, in company with the officers of the bank, to the place designated, and after a short search, succeeded in finding the satchel which they had discarded. Upon opening it, they found, as Edwards had said, three small canvas sacks containing about three hundred dollars in silver coin. No trace, however, was discovered of the sack supposed to contain the five thousand dollars whose disappearance was still a mystery. Pearson indignantly denied having taken more than six thousand dollars as his share, and this had been found in the yard of his father's house. Edwards was equally positive that he had not seen this sack, and yet the fact remained that there were five thousand dollars in gold coin which could not, as yet, be accounted for. Numerous theories were now advanced to account for this mysterious disappearance. One was that some outside party had found the valise, and finding the gold, had left the silver in order to make it appear that the satchel had not been disturbed. This was discarded at once, as the position and condition of the valise when found was such that it could not have been tampered with, or even opened. This was a surprising thing to contemplate, for the ground for miles around had been thoroughly searched by hundreds of people, and it was evident that no one had discovered the hiding-place of this valise. Another theory was that it was improbable that the two robbers would overlook a sack containing that large amount of money. Its very weight would have betrayed its presence, and added nearly nineteen pounds to the burden which they carried, and therefore there were still some grounds for entertaining a belief that Pearson had taken more than his share of the booty. To this belief I was not inclined to give much weight, as I felt convinced that Pearson had made a full confession of what had taken place, and had made honest restitution of the money he had taken. Under all the circumstances, therefore, I was inclined to think that Edwards and his companion had taken the gold, and that the capture of the remaining robber would unravel the seeming mystery. I was further convinced of this by another incident which transpired in this connection. After the valise had been found and returned to the bank, Edwards was taken into the building. The silver coin which had been recovered was placed within the satchel, and handed to him. After taking it in his hand, he immediately exclaimed: "Why, that isn't nearly as heavy as it was when we left the bank!" Mr. Silby then brought out a sack containing five thousand dollars in gold, and placed it in the satchel. Again Edwards lifted it, and this time he at once said: "That is more like it!" This experience strengthened me in the belief of Eugene Pearson's innocence, and that Edwards and his companion had either lost the gold in some manner, or had disposed of it in some other way. Acting upon this theory, the ground in the vicinity of the spot where the valise was found was thoroughly searched by both the bank officials and my operatives. All in vain, however; no trace was obtained of the missing sack of gold, and the matter of its loss was as much a mystery as ever. After the preliminary hearing had been held, the prisoners were removed to the county town, some miles distant, where they were placed in confinement, awaiting the day of trial, which would not take place for some time to come. While these events were transpiring, we had by no means been idle. Our primary success in arresting the three men thus far secured, had been most gratifying to the officers of the bank as well as to ourselves. Of course I was anxious to continue the search for the missing robber, but no one possessed a better knowledge than myself of the expense and delay that would be contingent upon such an undertaking. I therefore, as was my duty, fully informed the officers of the bank of the difficulty to be encountered if our investigation was continued. More than thirty days had elapsed since the robbery had been committed, the news of the burglary had been spread far and wide, and the information of the capture of the three robbers would be equally disseminated. This would probably place the fugitive upon his guard, and we could not pretend to fix a limit to the time that would be necessary to effect his capture. All these facts were fully explained to the bank officials, and with the assurance that we would achieve success if it were possible to do so, the matter was left to their decision. They were not long, however, in coming to a determination, and without hesitation, I was directed to prosecute the search according to my own judgment, in which, they assured me, they placed the utmost reliance. Thus supported, we made immediate arrangements for a protracted and unceasing search for the fleeing burglar, and before the hearing had taken place in Geneva, operative John Manning had been despatched to Clinton, Iowa, at which point it was designed to commence operations. The two operatives who had been detailed to look after the trunks of Thomas Duncan, in Chicago, had also reported the result of their espionage. After waiting for more than two hours, they noticed that an express wagon was driven up before the door, after which the trunks were brought out, placed in the wagon, and rapidly driven away. The operatives followed as rapidly as they were able to do, and ascertained that they were taken to the railroad station for shipment to Des Moines. As has already been detailed, Edwards and Duncan parted company at Clinton, Iowa, Duncan proceeding west, while Edwards had come direct to Chicago, from which point he had made his way eastward to the little village in New York, where he remained in fancied security until he was so unexpectedly taken into custody. Clinton, Iowa, was therefore the place from which to trace the flight of the bank robber, and John Manning was dispatched to that place, with full authority to exercise his own judgment about his future course of action. CHAPTER XV. On the Track of the Fleeing Burglar--Duncan's Home--Some Reflections. Within a few hours after receiving his orders, John Manning, satchel in hand, stepped from the train at Clinton, and proceeded to a hotel. It was nearly nightfall when he arrived, and after hastily partaking of his evening meal, he started out to make some inquiries about the man he was in search of. Having by some means gained a knowledge of Thomas Duncan's associates in Clinton, he had no difficulty in finding them, and dropping into a saloon which they frequented, he quietly introduced his name in a casual conversation with the proprietor. "Do you know Tod?" asked that gentleman, with some surprise. "Oh yes, very well," replied Manning. "I spent several days with him in Chicago, about a month ago, and had quite a pleasant time." "Oh, I remember; he stopped here after that, on his way to his home in Des Moines. You must have had quite a time, for Tod looked very much broken up." "Well, he was on quite a spree, I believe--and so he went to Des Moines, did he?" "Yes, he started for that point; but I believe he intended stopping some time in Ames, where he has a good many friends." "Did he say what he intended doing there, or whether he was going on out to Denver?" asked Manning. "No, I think he said he was going with a fishing-party from there and would be gone several weeks." After stating that he was about to travel in that direction himself, and learning the names of several of Duncan's friends in Ames, Manning left the saloon, and returned to his hotel. Ascertaining that he could leave on a train that night, he hastened to the depot and was soon speeding on his way. He arrived at Ames in due season, and here he was fortunate enough to find a friend of Duncan's, who informed him that instead of remaining in that city he had only lingered there one day, when he left on a freight train for Des Moines, stating that he was to meet a friend in the latter city and could not wait for the regular passenger train. Manning without delay then started for Des Moines, and upon arriving there, telegraphed the result of his investigation thus far. In reply he was informed that Duncan's baggage had been sent to Des Moines, and directed to inquire at the office of the American express whether it had been received or delivered. Immediately on the receipt of these instructions Manning repaired to the express office, and there to his intense delight, he discovered Duncan's trunks among the unclaimed baggage. Making himself known to the express superintendent, who was friendly to our interests, he remained around the office until late in the evening, when as the office was about to be closed, and feeling confident that the trunks would not be called for that night, he repaired to his hotel and sought his much-needed repose. The following morning he was up betimes, and deferring his visit to Duncan's friends until he had seen the trunks removed, he made his way again to the express office and took up his position as a watcher. Shortly before noon, a wagon was driven up before the door, and a man presented himself and demanded the trunks in which the detective was so much interested. The wagon bore the name of a grocer, John Miller, and was evidently used in delivering the wares dispensed by the merchant whose name was painted upon its sides. After the trunks had been transferred to the wagon, the driver mounted to the seat and slowly drove away. Manning followed on behind them, and after a short journey, the driver drew up before a handsome residence, surrounded by a beautiful lawn, adorned with numerous beds of bright blooming flowers. The building was a two-story one, with a wide porch extending around three sides, and was evidently the abode of a gentleman in fortunate circumstances. The trunks were removed from the wagon, and carried into the hall, after which the driver returned and drove away. After waiting for some time in view of the house, he saw the trunks taken in, and placed in a front room in the second story. Having now traced Thomas Duncan's trunks to their destination, and feeling the need of additional assistance, Manning repaired to the office of the chief of police and requested an interview with that functionary. Upon being conducted into the private office of the chief, Manning at once introduced himself, and stated the cause of his appearance in the city. He met with a most cordial reception, and the chief, without hesitation, promised him all the assistance in his power. He had heard of the robbery at the time of its occurrence, and had also read of the capture of the three men, who were suspected of being implicated in that affair. Upon being informed that Thomas Duncan was connected with the burglary, the chief evinced considerable surprise, for he was well acquainted with the young man, and had been for several years, in fact, almost since his boyhood. From the chief, Manning learned that Duncan's parents had lived in the city for a long time, and that "Tod" was rather a wild, careless fellow, who was frequently found in bad company. For a long time the young man and his father had been estranged, owing to the son's persistent course of folly and dissipation. Long and patiently had the old gentleman borne with his son, and had repeatedly opened his purse to liquidate debts which Tod had contracted; but finally, finding it useless to attempt to induce him to change his mode of life, he had forbidden him the house, and had not received him since. It was barely possible that Duncan might be found in the city, but the chief was inclined to a different belief. In any event, however, it would be useless to seek for him beneath his father's roof. Manning described the house at which the trunks were left, and was informed that it was occupied by a man named John Miller, a grocer, and an intimate friend of Duncan's. Duncan always made Mr. Miller's house his home during his visits to Des Moines, and if any one was acquainted with his movements, this John Miller ought to be the man. Instead, however, of calling upon Mr. Miller at once, Manning proposed to shadow the house during the day, in order to see if any one answering Duncan's description should enter or leave the place. This was deemed particularly advisable, as if Mr. Miller was approached at once, his suspicions might be excited, and if Duncan was in the city the alarm could be given, and he could readily make his escape before we could reach him. No one at all resembling Thomas Duncan, however, made his appearance during that day, and in the evening Manning repaired to the chief's office, as that gentleman had promised to accompany him on his visit to the friendly grocer. John Miller and Mr. Wallace, the chief of police, were warm friends, and he felt confident that Miller would not tell him an untruth; but it was deemed best to introduce Manning as a friend of Duncan's, from Chicago, who wanted to see him upon a matter of business. Of course, it had not yet reached the public ear that Thomas Duncan was suspected of complicity in the robbery, as we had kept that fact entirely secret, fearing that a divulgence of Edwards' confession would seriously interfere with our search for the missing burglar, and perhaps prevent us from ever apprehending him. The two men therefore repaired to the store of the grocer, and were fortunate enough to find him at home. He greeted the chief warmly, and acknowledged the introduction of Manning with good-natured heartiness and sincerity. Inviting them into his private office, Mr. Miller requested to know the nature of their call, and Mr. Wallace at once explained to him what had already been agreed upon. Manning further explained that when he left Duncan, that gentleman informed him that he intended coming to Des Moines, and would probably stop with Mr. Miller. "Has he been here recently?" asked Mr. Wallace. "Well, I'll tell you," replied Mr. Miller. "More than three weeks ago he was here. It was about midnight, and I had retired to bed. Suddenly I was awakened by a loud ringing at my door-bell. Hastily dressing myself, I went down, and there, to my surprise, stood Tod Duncan. He was so disguised, however, that I did not recognize him until he addressed me and told me who he was. He was attired in a suit of coarse brown ducking, heavy boots, and a slouch hat; around his neck he wore a large red handkerchief, and he looked more like a German tramp than like my old friend. I felt at once that something was wrong, or that he was in some trouble; so I asked him in, and we went to my room. My family were away at the time, and there was no one in the house but myself, and as he looked tired and hungry, I produced what eatables I had in the house, and he made a hearty meal. After he had finished, he turned to me, and laughingly said: "'The devil himself wouldn't know me in this rig, would he?' "I told him I thought not, and then asked him what was the cause of his strange disguise and his unexpected appearance in Des Moines. He told me that he had got into some trouble about a game of poker in Leadville, and that he had shot and perhaps killed a notorious gambler in that city. He wished me to help him, as he was hiding from the officers who were after him, until the affair blew over. He seemed particularly anxious that I should help him to get away. Upon asking him how the affair happened he related the following incident to me. It happened that he was playing a game of poker in Leadville, with a notorious and unscrupulous gambler, and that at one time when there was a large amount of money on the table, this gambler deliberately displayed four aces, when Duncan held an ace which had been dealt to him in the first hand. Upon accusing the gambler of attempting to cheat him, that worthy drew a pistol and attempted to intimidate him. He was too quick for his opponent, however, and quick as a flash, he had fired upon him, and the man fell. Hastily gathering up the money that was upon the table, Duncan succeeded in making good his escape from the house, amid a scene of confusion and uproar impossible to describe. He showed me," continued Mr. Miller, "a considerable sum of money, in proof of his assertion, and of course I have no reason to doubt his word. He further informed me that his trunks were in Chicago and that he was desirous of obtaining them. I provided him with pen and paper, and he wrote a letter which purported to be written in St. Louis and addressed to myself, stating that he was in that city, without a dollar, and requesting me to send for his trunks at Chicago, promising to repay me at an early day. I did not understand this proceeding, particularly as after writing this letter, he gave me twenty dollars, to pay for having his trunks sent to Des Moines, and requested me to allow them to remain in my house until he should send for them. That this letter was intended to mislead some one, I have no doubt; but I was at a loss to understand how it could succeed in its purpose if I retained possession of it. At his request then I inclosed his letter to me to the landlady at Chicago, and I know nothing further about it except that Duncan's trunks arrived to-day and are now in my house, awaiting his disposition." "How long did Duncan remain in town at that time?" asked Manning. "I think he left the next day," replied Mr. Miller. "He left my house on the following morning at any rate, and I learned afterward that he went away with an old friend of his, who is a brakeman on one of the roads here, on the same day that he left my house." "Do you know who the man was that he went away with?" now asked Mr. Wallace. "Yes; his name is Bob King, and if I am not mistaken, King obtained a leave of absence from the railroad company for a few days in order to go with Duncan. They hired a horse and carriage and started off in the direction of Grand Junction. King was absent several days, and then returned with the team, stating that Duncan had gone west. I thought this very strange, as, if he had ran away from Leadville, it would certainly be very unwise for him to return. However, I heard no more about him, but I have seen Bob King frequently. He comes in several times a week, and you can most likely find him about some of the boarding-houses around the Union Depot." This was all that could be gained from Mr. Miller, and after receiving that gentleman's promise to inform Mr. Wallace, in case he should hear anything of Duncan, the two men took their leave of the accommodating and loquacious grocer. Leaving the chief at his office, Manning resolved to pay a visit to the residence of Duncan's parents. Not, however, to make himself known or to institute any inquiries; but to quietly watch from the outside whatever was transpiring within. He found the house to be a large frame dwelling, with extensive grounds surrounding it; everything evinced the utmost refinement and good taste, and it was evidently the abode of respectability and wealth. The lights were gleaming through the windows of a room upon the lower floor, and Manning quietly opened the gate, and screened himself behind some tall bushes that were growing upon the lawn. Here he was effectually hidden, both from the inmates of the house, and the passers-by upon the street. The scene that greeted his vision was so peaceful and homelike, that Manning was convinced that Duncan's family were entirely ignorant of his movements or his crime. The father, a hale old gentleman with a smiling face, was reading aloud to the assembled members of his family, his wife and two daughters, who were busily engaged in some species of fancy work, so popular with ladies at the present time, and their evident enjoyment of the narrative was unmixed with any thought of wrong-doing or danger to one of their family. "How strange are the workings of circumstances," thought the detective. "Here is a happy home, a family surrounded by wealth, refinement and luxury, peaceful and contented, while a beloved member of it is now an outcast from the world, a fugitive from justice, hiding from the officers of the law, and vainly seeking to elude the grasp that sooner or later will be laid upon his shoulder." Silently maintaining his watch until the family retired, the detective slowly made his way to his hotel, and as he tossed upon his pillow, his dreams were peopled alternately with happy home-scenes of domestic comfort and content, and a weary, travel-stained criminal, hungry and foot-sore, who was lurking in the darkness, endeavoring to escape from the consequences of his crime. CHAPTER XVI. Bob King Meets with a Surprise--His Story of Duncan's Flight--The Detective Starts Westward. The most important object now to be accomplished was to secure an interview with Bob King, the brakeman, who had accompanied Duncan when he left Des Moines. Manning was convinced that King was fully aware by this time of the crime which Duncan had committed, and perhaps for a share of the proceeds, had assisted him in his flight from justice. Early on the following morning, therefore, he left the hotel, and started off in the direction of the depot, resolved to make a tour of the numerous boarding-houses before calling upon the chief of police. He had already obtained an accurate description of the man he was in search of, and had no doubt of recognizing him, should he be fortunate enough to meet him. Passing quietly along, he came to the large switch-yards, and here he was almost deafened by the rumble and noise of the trains, and the screeching and puffing of the engines. Here Manning paused awhile in the hope of seeing his man among the number of brakemen engaged about the yard; but finding no one that answered his description, he approached a party of men standing near, and inquired: "Can you tell me where I will find Bob King?" "Bob is not working to-day, and you will probably find him at the Union House, yonder," was the reply, as the man stretched his dirty finger in the direction indicated. Thanking the man, he passed through the yard to the street upon the opposite side. Here he found a long row of houses of various descriptions, but all of them apparently occupied as eating-saloons, boarding-houses and hotels. On the corner of the street, and directly opposite from where the detective stood, was a low, dingy-looking frame building, with the name of Union House painted across the front. "Here we are," said Manning to himself, "and we will soon ascertain if Mr. King is about." So saying he crossed the street and entered the office or waiting-room of the hostelry. An old settee, a half-dozen or more well-whittled wooden arm-chairs, a rusty stove set in a square box filled with saw-dust, were about all the movable furniture which the room contained. In the corner, however, was a short counter behind which, arranged on long rows of hooks, were suspended a number of hats, caps and coats of a decidedly miscellaneous character. An ancient-looking register, filled with blots and hieroglyphics, lay upon the counter, and as the room was empty, Manning walked toward the open volume and examined the names inscribed thereon. Under the date of the preceding evening, he found the name he was looking for, and a cabalistic sign on the margin designated that he had lodged there the night before and indicated that he might still be in the house. While he was thus standing, a frowsy-headed young man, whose face was still shining from the severe friction of a coarse roller-towel, which hung behind the door, entered the room, and saluting the detective familiarly, proceeded to comb his hair before a cracked mirror that hung behind the desk. After he had hastily finished this operation, he turned again to Manning, who had been smilingly observing his movements. "Have you had breakfast, sir? last table just ready." "Thank you," replied Manning, "I have already had my breakfast. I am looking for a man who is stopping here, by the name of King." "What's his first name--Bob?" "Yes, that's his name. He is a brakeman on the road." "Oh, yes, Bob's here. He's eating his breakfast now. Just sit down, he'll be here directly." After waiting a few minutes, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, of rather good-natured and intelligent appearance, entered the room, and taking a cap from one of the hooks upon the wall, placed it upon his head. It did not require the rather officious indication of the young clerk to induce the detective to recognize the new-comer as the man whom he was most desirous of seeing; his appearance tallied precisely with the description of him which he had previously obtained. Stepping quietly up to the young man, the detective said, carelessly: "Your name is Bob King, I believe?" Somewhat confused by the abrupt salutation, the young fellow replied, rather awkwardly: "Yes, that's my name; but you've got the brakes on me, for I don't remember that I ever saw you before." "Perhaps not," answered Manning, "but I want to have a little private conversation with you for a few minutes. Can we go somewhere where we will not be interrupted?" "Why, yes," responded the other, still evidently ill at ease, "come in here." And turning about, he led the way through a door across the hall, and entered a small and plainly furnished sitting-room. "Wait," said Manning, as if suddenly conceiving an idea. "The morning is pleasant, and I have a good cigar here; suppose we take a short walk together. We can talk as we stroll along." "All right," said King, as he took the proffered cigar, and lighting it, they went out of the hotel into the street. Mr. Robert King eyed the detective furtively ever and anon, and seemed to be impatient for him to begin the conversation, and inform him what it was all about. There was, however, such a perfect air of ease and unconcern about Manning, that the young brakeman felt impelled to accompany him whether he would or not. Manning led the way in the direction of the office of the chief of police, and after they had fairly started, he turned to his companion, and good-naturedly said: "Mr. King, I suppose you are quite anxious to know who I am, and what is the nature of my business with you?" "Well, yes," answered King, smilingly, for the _sang froid_ of Manning had quite won his heart. "I would like to know both of those things." "Well," said the detective, "my name is John Manning, and I am a native of Chicago. I am an intimate friend of 'Tod' Duncan's, and want to know where to find him." "You will have to ask somebody that can tell you, then," answered King, who had now fully recovered his composure, "for I don't know anything about him." "Why," ejaculated Manning, as though quite surprised at the information, "I thought that you and Tod went off on a hunting or fishing party a few weeks ago, and that you came home, leaving Tod to continue his journey alone." "That's a mistake," said King, "and whoever informed you to that effect was as much mistaken as you are." Mr. King was evidently trying the good-natured game of bluff, and Manning noticed with some satisfaction that they were now approaching very near to the office of Mr. Wallace. "See here," said he, suddenly turning on his companion. "Mr. King, this won't do. Duncan is wanted for the Geneva bank robbery. He was here three weeks ago, and you were with him. You got him out of town, and if you are not disposed to be communicative, I have simply got to place you under arrest." The change in King's manner was very complete. He was utterly surprised and nonplused, and before he could answer a word Manning placed his hand on his shoulder and said, peremptorily: "Come in here, Mr. King; perhaps Mr. Wallace can loosen your tongue." [Illustration: "Come in here, Mr. King; perhaps Mr. Wallace can loosen your tongue."] They were now directly in front of the office of the chief, and King knew that any attempt at resistance would be futile, and decidedly unwise, so he deemed it best to submit at once. "Don't be too hard on a fellow," said he at last. "I have a good position and I can't afford to lose it. If you will give me a chance, I will tell you all I know." "Very well, come right in here," said Manning, "and if you tell me the truth, I promise you no harm will come to you." In a few minutes they were closeted with the chief, who knew King very well, and who added his assurances to those of Manning, that if he would unburden himself fully, no danger need be apprehended. "I want to say first," said King, at last convinced that it would be better to make a clean breast of the whole matter, "that what I did, was done in good faith, and I only thought I was helping a friend who had got into trouble through acting in self-defense." "Very well," said Manning, "we will admit all that, but tell us what you know." "Well," answered King, after a pause in which to collect himself, "It was about three weeks ago, that Duncan came to the city, and knowing where I stopped, he came to see me. I happened to be in from my run when he called, and he wanted to know if I could get a leave of absence for a week, as he wanted to go on a fishing trip and would pay all the expenses. I went to the master of transportation and found no difficulty in obtaining my leave, and then I saw Tod and told him I was at his service. We then procured a team, guns, fishing-tackle and provisions, not forgetting a good supply of smoking and drinking articles, and the next day started off in the direction of Grand Junction. Before we started, Duncan told me about getting into a scrape over a game of cards at Leadville, and that he had shot two gamblers and was keeping out of the way until the excitement over the affair had died out." "Duncan has raised one man, I see," laughed Manning. "When I heard this story first, he had only killed one gambler in his fight over the cards." "Well, I am telling you what Duncan told me," answered King. "That's all right," said Manning quietly, "but suppose you go ahead and tell us what he told you about robbing the Geneva bank." The cool assurance of the detective, and the easy assumption with which he stated his conclusions, so disconcerted King, that he was speechless for a few moments. Recovering himself quickly, however, he answered doggedly: "Well, I intended to tell you the whole story, and I was simply telling it in my own way." "Go on, Mr. King," said Manning, "all I want is the truth, but the card story won't do." "I guess it won't do me any good to tell you anything else but the truth," rejoined King. "Well, Tod told me about this shooting business before we started, and of course I believed it. I noticed, though, before we were away from the city very long, that there was something else on his mind, that made him very uneasy, and gave him a great deal of trouble. He was moody and silent for hours, and it was only when he drank a great deal that he was at all lively, or seemed like his old natural self. Finally, on the morning of the third day, I put the question fairly to him, and he then told me what he had done. He said he and two others had robbed a bank, and that he was making his way westward. He was resolved not to be captured, and said that no two men should take him alive. He then told me that he wanted me to take the team back to Des Moines, and that he would take the train at Grand Junction, and try to make his way to Manitoba. We parted company at the Junction, where Tod took the train for Sioux City. He paid all the expenses of the trip and offered to give me some of the money, but I refused to accept any, and told him what I had done was done simply for friendship." "How much money did Duncan have at that time?" asked Manning. "He had nearly four thousand dollars, I should judge," answered King. "Did he say who assisted him in this robbery?" "Yes; he told me that a man by the name of Edwards was one, and that the assistant cashier of the bank was the prime mover in the whole affair. He also said that the cashier had not played fair, but had taken out twelve thousand dollars in gold instead of six thousand. He was very bitter against this man, and said he believed that he would give them all away to save his own neck, if it came to the pinch." After some further conversation, which convinced Manning that King was telling the truth and that he was entirely ignorant of Duncan's hiding-place, the young brakeman was allowed to go his way, with the understanding that they were to meet again in the evening. Manning now hastened to the telegraph office, and a cipher message, containing in brief all he had thus far learned, was soon upon its way to me. My reply was to the effect that he should again see King, and inquire if Duncan had mentioned anything about the valise which they had carried away from Geneva. Then to endeavor to obtain a photograph of Duncan, and finally thereafter to lose no time in starting out for Sioux City. I was considerably exercised about this missing package of gold. I could not believe that Pearson had taken it, although both Edwards and Duncan appeared to be positive of it. The young cashier now seemed to be too utterly crushed down and humiliated to permit me to believe that he had lied still further, and that he was still keeping back a portion of the plunder he had secured. Still, however much I was desirous of discarding such a belief, I was resolved to leave no stone unturned in order to explain the mystery. I felt positive that some explanation would yet be made that would account for this package, and in a manner that would not connect Eugene Pearson with its disappearance. Up to this time, however, we were as far from the truth in this connection as when we commenced, and I could do no more than await the arrest of Duncan, before the matter could be definitely settled. I came to this conclusion on the assumption that all the parties thus far had told the truth, and it seemed to me that one or the other of them must certainly be mistaken in their original impressions. This theory, however, yet remained. Edwards and Duncan might have obtained the money, and being still under the influence of the liquor they had drank, and excited over what had transpired, had thrown away the valise, and at that time it might still have contained the gold. In accordance with my instructions, Manning remained in Des Moines two days succeeding this, but was unable to learn from King that Duncan had mentioned the valise in any manner whatever. In his attempt to obtain a photograph of Duncan, however, he was more successful, and with the assistance of Capt. Wallace, he was fortunate enough to be placed in possession of a very excellent picture of young Duncan, which had but recently been taken. This accession to his stock of knowledge was destined to play an important part in his continued search after the fugitive burglar. Finding that nothing more could be learned in Des Moines, and receiving assurances from the friendly chief that any information would be forwarded to him at once, Manning departed from the home of the youthful law-breaker and started for Sioux City. CHAPTER XVII. Manning Strikes the Trail--An Accommodating Tailor--Temporary Disappointment and final Success--The Detective reaches Minneapolis. August, with its hot, sweltering days, when the very skies seemed to be a canopy of lurid, quivering heat; and when every breeze seemed freighted with a depressing warmth that almost rendered labor impossible, had passed away, and we were now in the enjoyment of the clear, cool days of September. The skies were bluer, the air was purer, and the beautiful, golden autumn was welcomed with a grateful sense of pleasure and relief. Nearly a month had now elapsed since the robbery of the Geneva Bank, and, although we had accomplished much, our work was not yet completed. Thomas Duncan was still at liberty, and our task was yet unfinished. I have already, as briefly as I could, related the various events which had transpired since the robbery, and detailed the efforts which we had thus far made toward accomplishing the capture of the perpetrators of this crime. Of Thomas Duncan, however, I had learned comparatively little, and of his movements still less; and yet, at times, I found myself indulging in feelings of sympathy for the young man, who had so recklessly and inconsiderately thrown away the best chances of his life. Of a careless disposition and inclined to folly, I was convinced that until this time he had never stooped to commit a crime. This was his first flagrant violation of the law, and when I thought of him a hunted fugitive, seeking to hide himself from the vigilant eyes of the officers of the law, and of the quiet, peaceful and happy home of his parents, I could not repress a feeling of regret and sorrow for the wayward youth in this, the hour of his humiliation and trial. Far different from Eugene Pearson, who had no cares and no temptations to commit crimes, and who had practiced a scheme of vile deception and ingratitude for years, Thomas Duncan had been found in a moment of weakness and desperation, and under the influence of wily tempters, had yielded himself up to their blandishments, and had done that which had made him a felon. As to Eugene Pearson, the trusted, honored and respected official of the bank, who had deliberately planned and assisted in this robbery of his best friends, I had no words of palliation for his offenses; but for "Tod" Duncan, the weak and tempted victim of designing men and adverse circumstances, I experienced a sense of sympathy which I could not easily shake off. Where was he now? Perhaps hiding in the forests of the far west, amid the barbaric scenes of savage life; perhaps giving himself up to a reckless life of dissipation, seeking in the delirium of intoxication a forgetfulness of the deed he had committed, and of the consequences which must befall him. How many long, weary nights since he fled from Geneva, with his ill-gotten booty, had he, even in the midst of a bacchanalian revel, started suddenly, as if in fear of the officer he so much dreaded, and then with a boastful laugh drank deeper to drown the agonies that oppressed him? Perhaps, on the other hand, the first step taken, the rest had come easy and without effort, and he had already become hardened and reckless. Whatever might be the case, we were as yet uninformed, and operative John Manning arrived in Sioux City with no definite clew to the missing man. Seeking, as before, the assistance of the police authorities, Manning proposed to make a tour of the so-called houses of pleasure, which infest all cities, deeming it most likely that he would obtain some traces of Duncan by that means. This proved successful in a comparative degree, for in one of these places Manning found a gay young cyprian, who recognized Duncan's picture immediately. A bottle of very inferior wine at an exorbitant price was ordered, and under its influence the girl informed the detective that Duncan had come there alone one evening about two weeks prior to this time, and that she had accompanied him upon a drive. They had become quite familiar during their short acquaintance, and Duncan drank a great deal. On the following morning he had left the house, and stated that he was going to leave the city that day. Further than this, the girl could not say, and Manning must needs be content with even that trifling amount of encouragement for the present. Manning had also been provided with a facsimile of Duncan's handwriting and signature, and he carefully examined the registers of the several hotels, in order to discover whether he had stopped at any of them under his own or any fictitious name which resembled in any manner the one he bore, but without any success whatever. On returning to the hotel, he occupied himself debating as to the best movement to make next. He was surprised on arriving there to find a telegram from Capt. Wallace awaiting him. On removing the inclosure he found a message informing him that Duncan had an acquaintance in Sioux City whose name was Griswold, and who was engaged in the tailoring business at that place. Aided by this important piece of intelligence, the detective was not long in finding the establishment presided over by Mr. Griswold. That gentleman was located in the business section of the city, and his neatly arranged store was well stocked with goods of excellent quality and apparently of recent style. On entering the shop, Mr. Griswold was found perched on a table in the rear, his legs crossed, and with nimble fingers was engaged in the manufacture of some of the articles of his trade. He was a small, sharp-featured man, about forty, with a shrewd though not unpleasant face, and as he came briskly forward to greet a prospective customer, his countenance was wreathed in a smile that was almost irresistible. "Can I do anything for you this morning?" was the polite salutation of the little tailor. "Yes," replied the detective. "I want to look at some goods that will make a good suit of clothes." "Certainly," replied the knight of the shears. "I have some excellent styles here, and I am sure I can give you your full satisfaction." "I have no doubt of that," said Manning pleasantly. "I have been recommended here by my friend Tod Duncan, and he speaks very highly of you." The face of the little tailor was again wreathed in smiles, as he delightedly inquired: "Do you mean Duncan, the traveling man from Des Moines?" "Yes," replied Manning, "that's the man; I am a traveling man myself, but in a different line, and I expected to meet him in this city, but I was disappointed. I guess he must have got ahead of me." "Let me see," said Mr. Griswold, with his needle-pricked finger pressed against his nose. "He was here about two weeks ago, I guess." "Do you know which way he was going?" "I think he said he was going to St. Paul. I made a suit of clothes for him in a great hurry, as he was very anxious to get away." "What kind of a suit did he get?" asked Manning, now anxious to learn the clothing of the man, in order that he might the more accurately describe him. "It was from this piece," said Mr. Griswold, throwing on the table a roll of dark green cassimere. "That is one of the latest importations, and as fine a piece of goods as I have in the house." "I like that myself," said the detective. "Would you object to giving me a small piece of it as a sample? I want to show it to a friend of mine at the hotel, who has pretty good taste in such matters." "Of course not," replied Mr. Griswold, as he clipped off a piece of the cloth, little dreaming of the use to which the detective would put it. Declining to make a selection until he had sought the advice of an imaginary friend, and stating that he would probably call again in the evening, Manning took his leave of the little tailor. The detective then repaired to the railroad ticket office, where he had a friend of long standing, from whom he hoped to derive some material information. At the railroad station he found his friend on duty, and after the usual friendly salutations, he requested a few moments' private conversation. Being admitted to an inner office, Manning at once displayed the photograph of Duncan, and asked: "Harry, have you seen that face about here, say within about two weeks?" Taking the picture, and regarding it intently for a moment, he said: "Why, yes--that's Duncan from Des Moines. I know him very well. He has been here often." "Well, has he been here within two weeks?" "Yes, he was here about two weeks ago on a spree, and he bought a ticket for St. Paul." "Are you quite sure about that?" "Perfectly sure," answered the ticket agent. "I remember it distinctly, and what impressed it the more forcibly upon my mind is the fact that he wanted to know if I could give him a ticket on the Northern Pacific road from here, and I told him he would have to go to St. Paul for that." "Did he mention any particular point on the railroad that he wanted a ticket for?" asked Manning. "No, I think not. He simply said he was making for Dakota." Ascertaining that a train would leave for St. Paul in an hour, the detective purchased a ticket for that city, and thanking the agent for his information, he returned to the hotel to make arrangements for continuing his journey. Before leaving, however, he telegraphed me his destination, and what he had been able to learn. From this information it was evident that Duncan was endeavoring to reach the far west, and there seek a refuge among some of the numerous mining camps which abound in that section of the country, hoping by that means to successfully elude pursuit, should any be made for him. It was plainly evident to me that he was entirely unaware of being followed, and, in fact, of anything that had taken place since the robbery, and that he was simply following his own blind inclinations to hide himself as effectually as he could. The first task performed by Manning after reaching St. Paul, was to examine all the hotel registers, in the hope of discovering some traces of an entry resembling the peculiar handwriting of Duncan. He also took the precaution to quietly display the photograph of the young man to all the clerks of the various hostelries, trusting that some one would recognize him as one who had been their guest on some previous occasion. In this, too, he was disappointed. Among the many to whom he displayed Duncan's picture, not one of them had any recollection of such an individual. Feeling somewhat disheartened at this non-success, Manning next sought the chief of police, and enlisted his services in our behalf. That evening, in company with an officer, he made a tour among the houses of ill repute, and here, too, disappointment awaited him. Not one among the number whom he approached had any knowledge of the man, and therefore could give him no information. Tired and puzzled and vexed, he at length was compelled to return to the hotel, and seek his much-needed repose. His experience in St. Paul had thus far been far from satisfactory, and yet the thought of abandoning his investigations in that city never occurred to him. He had too frequently been compelled to battle with unpromising circumstances in the past, to allow a temporary discomfiture to dishearten him now. He felt that he was upon the right track, that Duncan had certainly come from Sioux City to St. Paul, but whether he had remained here any length of time, or had pushed on without stopping, was the question that bothered him immensely. Resolving, therefore, to renew his efforts in the morning, he soon fell asleep. On the morrow, when he descended to the office of the hotel, preparatory to partaking of his morning repast, he noticed with some little surprise that a new face was behind the counter. Surmising that this might be the night clerk, yet unrelieved from his duties, and that Duncan might have arrived during the time he officiated, Manning approached him, and propounded the usual question. When he brought forth the photograph, to his intense delight, the clerk recognized it at once. Turning to the register and hastily running over the leaves, he pointed to a name inscribed thereon. "That's the man," said he confidently. Manning looked at the name indicated, and found scrawled in a very uncertain hand: "_John Tracy, Denver, Col._" "He came in on a night train," continued the clerk. "He only remained to breakfast and went away shortly afterward." "Have you any idea which way he went?" inquired Manning. "No, I cannot tell you that. He left the hotel shortly after breakfast in a hack. He did not return after that, but sent the hackman here to pay his bill and to obtain his valise. He acted very strange while he was here, and I felt somewhat suspicious of him." "Can you tell me the name of this hackman?" now asked Manning. "I think his name is Davids," answered the clerk, "but I will ask the baggage-man about him; he can, no doubt, tell me who he is." The baggage-man was summoned and he distinctly remembered the occurrence, and that the driver's name was Billy Davids, who was well-known throughout the city, particularly among the sporting fraternity. Thanking both of these men for the information which they had given him, the detective, forgetting all about his breakfast, hastened to the office of the chief of police, and acquainting him with what he had heard, expressed his desire to see this hackman at once. The chief, who knew the man, at once volunteered to accompany him, and they left the office together in search of the important cab-driver. It being yet quite early in the morning, they went directly to the stable, and here they found Billy Davids in the act of harnessing his horses and preparing for his day's work. "Good morning, Billy," said the chief, good-naturedly. "You are making an early start, I see; are you busy?" "No, sir," answered Mr. Davids; "I can take you gentlemen wherever you want to go." "Not to-day, Billy; but I have a friend here who wants to talk to you, and you may find it to your interest to tell him what he wishes to know." Manning stepped forward and stated, in as few words as possible, what he desired, and at length displayed the inevitable photograph. Davids recognized it at once, as a "party" who had engaged him to take himself and a woman from the hotel, to a resort some distance from the city, known as the "Half-way House." He performed this duty, and later in the day, after waiting several hours, the man had given him ten dollars and sent him back to the hotel to pay his bill and to obtain his valise. After performing this service, he returned to the Half-way House, and waited there until dark, when Duncan came out alone, and was driven to the Northern Pacific depot. Arriving here, he paid the hackman quite liberally and dismissed him, saying that he was going to leave town on the next train westward. "Have you any idea where he was going?" asked Manning. "I think he went to Minneapolis, for he asked me if that road would take him there, and I saw him get aboard the train for that city;" answered the driver. This was all that Davids could tell; and after remunerating him for his trouble, Manning left him to finish his preparations for the day. Here was the very information he wanted, and he had struck the trail again. Anxious to pursue his journey, Manning invited the chief to breakfast with him; after which, finding he could leave in a very short time, he bade the courteous and valuable officer good-by, and was soon on his way to Minneapolis, there to commence again the trail of the fleeing burglar. CHAPTER XVIII. The Detective at Bismarck--Further Traces of the Fugitive--A Protracted Orgie--A Jewish Friend of the Burglar in Trouble. On arriving in Minneapolis, Manning was able to discover without serious difficulty that Duncan, after remaining in that city two days, had purchased a ticket over the Northern Pacific railroad for Bismarck, a thriving town in Dakota. This information he had been able to gain by a resort to his old method of visiting the houses of ill-fame, and then carelessly exposing Duncan's photograph to the various inmates, in such a manner as to excite no suspicion of his real errand. His experience thus far had been that Duncan, either to evade pursuit, to gratify bestial passion, or to endeavor by such excitements to drive away the haunting fear that oppressed him, had invariably sought the companionship of the harlot and the profligate. Being possessed of plenty of money, it may be imagined that he experienced no difficulty in finding associates willing to minister to his appetites, and to assist him in forgetting the dangers that threatened him, by dissipation and debauchery. All along his path were strewn these evidences of reckless abandonment, which, while they temporarily enabled him to drown the remembrances of his crime, yet, at the same time, they served most powerfully to point out to his pursuer the road he was traveling. It appeared, therefore, that my first theories were correct, and that Thomas Duncan was making his way to the far western country, where, beyond the easy and expeditious mode of communication by railroad and telegraph, he would be safe from pursuit. He was evidently seeking to reach the mining district, where, among men as reckless as himself, he hoped to evade the officers of law. Manning lost no time in following up the clew he had obtained in Minneapolis, and so, purchasing a ticket for Bismarck, he was soon thundering on his way to the Missouri river. At Brainerd, at Fargo in Minnesota, and at Jamestown in Dakota, during the time when the train had stopped for some necessary purpose, he had made inquiries, and at each place was rewarded by gleaning some information, however fragmentary, of the fugitive. He was therefore assured that he was upon the trail, and that unless something unforeseen occurred, he would sooner or later overtake the object of his pursuit. On the following day Manning arrived at Bismarck, a thrifty and growing little town on the banks of the muddy Missouri. As the train left the more thickly populated country and emerged into the region of this as yet comparatively undeveloped west, the detective was surprised to witness the rapid advancements that had been made within a few years. The spirit of American energy and enterprise was reaching out into this vast region, and already the influences of modern civilization and thrift were manifesting themselves. No longer a trackless waste, abandoned to the roaming bands of Indians and the wild beasts of the forest, and plain, the western continent was fast yielding to the plowshare of the husbandman, and to the powerful agencies of education and improvement. Bismarck itself was a wonderfully active town, and during the season of navigation a large commercial business was transacted with the various towns upon the river, both above and below it. Before the advent of the Northern Pacific railroad, Bismarck had an existence, but simply as a sleepy river station, with its periodical bursts of life and animation during the months when the river was navigable and when trade along its waters was possible. When winter came, however, with its chilling blasts, and the river was frozen, trade almost ceased entirely, and Bismarck remained in sluggish inactivity until spring with its refreshing showers and balmy breezes awakened it to new life and being. Now, however, all was changed. The railroad with its facilities, had opened the way to emigration; the pioneers had penetrated the solitudes, and Bismarck had grown with that wonderful rapidity so characteristic of the western town. The advent of the iron horse had opened up new and hitherto undreamed of possibilities. Real estate, which had previously no fixed value whatever, was now in demand at almost fabulous prices. Stores and dwellings sprang into being, hotels and churches were built, school houses and even banking institutions flourished with a vigor that seemed almost miraculous. Sauntering about the town on the morning after his arrival, Manning was surprised at the activity and bustle, the thrift and energy which greeted him on every hand. His past experiences had taught him many things which he found of use to him in making his inquiries in Bismarck, and it was not long before he succeeded in learning definite particulars of Duncan's stay in this place. From reliable sources he ascertained that the young man had arrived in the town about two weeks prior to this, and had remained several days, enjoying himself in much the same manner that had marked his residence in the other cities along his route, except that in Bismarck he had exposed himself to a greater extent than at any other place. It seemed that as he got further west, his fears of pursuit and detection grew less, and he became more bold and open in his actions. Here he had not attempted concealment at all, except as to his name, which he gave as Tom Moore, of Chicago; his carousals were publicly known, and the lavish expenditure of his stolen money was commented upon by many. In a conversation with the proprietor of the hotel at which Duncan had stopped, the detective learned that his stay in the city had been marked by the most reckless dissipation and extravagance. So careless did he appear in the display of his money, of which he appeared to have a large amount, that the proprietor had taken it upon himself to warn him against the danger to which such a course would expose him. The town was infested with a gang of roughs and thieves, and he feared that if once they became aware of Duncan's wealth, his life would be of comparatively little value. Several of these characters had been seen about the hotel, and the landlord had remonstrated seriously with Duncan about his folly. To this Duncan had impudently replied that he could take care of himself, and needed no advice. Finding it of no use, therefore, to advise him, the landlord desisted in his efforts, and left him to follow his own inclinations. Manning also learned from his host that Duncan had associated quite intimately while in the city, with a Jew clothing merchant, who was a resident here, and who seemed to be an old acquaintance. The name of this man was Jacob Gross, and ascertaining where his place of business was located, Manning determined to give him a call. When he entered the store of Mr. Gross, that gentleman was engaged in waiting upon a customer. He was a perfect type of the Israelite--sharp-featured, with prominent nose, keen, glittering eyes and curly black hair. If any doubt of his race remained, the manner in which he conducted his bargain with his unsuspecting customer would have convinced any one of the presence of the veritable Jew. Manning watched, with amused interest, the tact with which the Hebrew clothier endeavored to convince his customer that a coat, much too large for him, was "yust a fit and no mistake," and that the price which he asked was not half as much as the garment was worth. After the customer had departed, the clothier advanced, bowing and smiling, toward the detective, as if anticipating another sale as profitable as the last one. Manning informed him in a few words that he was looking for Duncan, and was a friend of his, who was desirous of gaining some information of his present whereabouts, as unless he saw him, Duncan might be getting into more trouble. It appeared that Duncan had told the same gambling story to Mr. Gross, who seemed to be dreadfully shocked at the affair. "Py gracious," said he excitedly, "I hafe knowed dot boy ven I sold cloding in Des Moines, more as fife years ago, and so help me Moses I did nefer belief he vud do such a ting loike dot." After further conversation, he learned that Duncan had spent a great deal of his time at this store, and when he left, had stated that he intended to go on to Miles City, and perhaps to Butte City, Montana. It appeared that Duncan had an uncle who was engaged in the clothing business at Butte City, and that it was possible he might eventually get there. "If you find him," said Mr. Gross, after he had given the above information, "you musn't told him where you heard this, because he told me, I should say nothing about him to anybody." "All right," replied Manning, "if I find him, it won't make much difference to him who told me about him." As he uttered these words a peculiar look came into the shrewd face of the Jew, a look which was partly of quick suspicion and of fear, and he eyed the imperturbable detective for a few moments as though seriously in doubt about the whole affair. Manning, however, had nothing further to say, and bidding the clothier a pleasant farewell he left the store. On returning to the hotel, he found that he had several hours to wait, as no train would leave Bismarck until evening, and he therefore employed his time in writing up his reports and mailing them to me. After partaking of an early tea, he returned to the railroad station, where he discovered that he had yet some time to wait before the arrival of the train, which was belated. As he was standing on the rude platform, musing over the events which had taken place in his journey thus far, and speculating as to the probable result of his chase after an individual who had seemed, phantom-like, to have eluded his grasp at every point. He knew full well the desperation of the man he was following, and the threat that "no two men should take him alive," was, he realized, no idle one. He had no doubt that unless he could circumvent him in some way, his capture might be no easy task, and that in this undeveloped country he was taking his life in his hands in the journey he was now making. He never faltered for an instant, however; he was determined to capture this criminal, if possible, and he quietly murmured to himself: "Well, let the worst come, a quick eye and a steady hand are good things to have in a meeting like this may be, and I'll take care that Thomas Duncan does not catch me napping." His meditations were suddenly interrupted by the unexpected appearance of the little Jewish tailor, who, breathless and panting, now came scrambling up on the platform and exclaimed: "Py gracious, Mr. Manning! I vas afraid you vas gone, and I hafe somedings on my mindt dot bodders me like de dickens!" [Illustration: "Py cracious, Mr. Manning, I hafe somedings on my mindt dot bodders me loike de dickens!"] "What is it that troubles you, Mr. Gross?" inquired the detective, laughing in spite of himself at the little fellow's distress. "Vell, I'll told you," he answered, mopping the perspiration which was streaming from his face. "I was tinkin' dot may be if you git dot fellow, you vould be vantin' me for a vitness, and s'help me Moses I vould not do dot--not for dwo hundred tollar." "Oh, you need not give yourself any uneasiness on that score, Mr. Gross," said Manning; "you will not be wanted in any case whatever." "My gootness, I vas glad of dot. If I vas to leaf my bisness I vould be ruined. Dot's all right, dough. Let's go und take a glass of peer." At this juncture, the shrill whistle of the approaching train was heard, and this fact enabled the detective to decline the proffered beverage. After a hearty hand-shake from the nervous little clothier, Manning sprang upon the train and in a few moments later he was on his way to Miles City. CHAPTER XIX. From Bismarck to Bozeman--The Trail Growing Warmer--Duncan Buys a Pony--A Long Stage Ride. The distance from Bismarck to Miles City is about three hundred miles, and as Manning left the former place early in the evening, he secured a couch in the comfortable sleeping car, and shortly afterward retired to rest. It seemed almost incredible the giant strides which had been made in a few years in the process of civilization in our western country. But yesterday the ground which our operative was now traveling in comfort, was overrun by the Indian and the wild beasts of the forest, and to-day along his entire route were rising up substantial towns and villages, bringing in their wake the enlightening influences of education and morality. The railroad, that mighty agent of civilization, is rapidly forging a chain of communication between the two great oceans, and travel in the western wilds, formerly fraught with hardships and dangers unspeakable, is now performed with rapidity, comfort and safety. In the morning the train stopped at Little Missouri, where the passengers were refreshed with breakfast, then on again past Sentinel Butte, they left the boundaries of Dakota and entered the great territory of Montana. On again like the rush of the wind, until about five o'clock in the afternoon, they arrived at Miles City, where the train was to remain nearly two hours, before continuing their journey. Miles City was another striking illustration of the wonderful growth of American towns. Less than a year ago, a barren waste marked the spot where now was growing a thriving city. The railroad, as in other localities, had played an important part in awakening this uninhabited region to life and activity. The trackless, boundless prairie had been reclaimed, and was now a flourishing city, full of bustle and vigor. Making his way to a neat and comfortable hotel, which bore the rather euphonious title of St. Cloud, Manning partook of a substantial meal and then set about his investigations. He soon found news of the object of his inquiries. From the proprietor of the St. Cloud, he learned that Duncan had remained here two days, and upon the register he saw the now well-known signature of Tom Moore of Chicago. He had informed the inn-keeper of his intention of going to Bozeman, a town lying to the north of the Crow Reservation. Manning resolved, therefore, to press right on, and he returned to the railroad station, where the train was still waiting. Purchasing a ticket for Billings, he started again on his way, and at nearly midnight he arrived at his destination, where he secured quarters for the night. Billings was, at this time, the terminal point of the Northern Pacific railroad, and as the detective sought the open air on the following morning, he was amazed at the scenes that were presented to his view. The place was literally swarming with people. Prospectors, land-buyers, traders, merchants, and a miscellaneous army of railroad men were everywhere. No time had been afforded in which to build suitable structures for housing the ever-increasing population, and the town presented the appearance of a huge encampment; nearly one-half of the city being composed of canvas tents. In the hotels, on the corners of the streets, and in the places of business, the universal topic of conversation was the phenomenal growth of the city, and the grand prospects which the future had in store for this embryotic western metropolis. Along the railroad, a perfect army of workmen were assembled, awaiting their orders for the day. Graders, tie-men, track-layers and construction corps, were already on the spot, and they too seemed imbued with the same spirit of enthusiasm which filled their more wealthy and ambitious neighbors in the city. As may readily be imagined, crime and immorality followed hand in hand with the march of improvement. The gambler and the harlot plied their vocations in the full light of day, and as yet unrebuked by the ruling powers of a community, too newly located to assume the dignity of enacting laws. The detective made his way through the streets, mentally noting these things, while his efforts were directed to finding some trace of Thomas Duncan. He made a systematic tour of the hotels, or more properly speaking, the boarding-houses with which the town was filled, and after numerous disappointments, was at last successful in learning something definite of the movements of his man. At a hotel called the "Windsor," he found the unmistakable signature he was looking for, and was convinced that Tom Moore of Chicago had preceded him but a few days. Exhibiting his talismanic photograph to the proprietor, he was informed that Duncan had been there some ten days before, and after remaining a day or two, had gone over to the military cantonments, some four or five miles distant, where a detachment of United States soldiers were quartered. Procuring a horse, Manning started for the cantonment, where he was kindly received by Major Bell, the officer in charge, who informed him that Duncan had been there some days before, and that he had remained about the camp for several days, playing cards with the soldiers and enjoying himself generally. During his stay he had purchased a pony from a Crow Indian, and while he was at the cantonment he rode into Billings and bought a Sharp's repeating rifle, after which he had mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of Fort Custer. He had remained away several days when he again returned to the cantonment, and after remaining there one night, he had started on horseback for Bozeman and Helena. This was authentic and gratifying intelligence. Manning had received not only reliable information as to the movements of Duncan, but the distance between them had been materially lessened by the fugitive's long detention at the cantonment. The burglar was now but a few days ahead of him, and if nothing transpired to delay him, he would soon overtake the man, who, from all indications, was entirely unsuspicious of the fact that a detective was upon his track who had followed his trail as closely and as unerringly as the Indian follows the track of the beast through forest and stream. As an additional means of identification, Manning secured a full description of the horse purchased by Duncan, and with this increased fund of information, Manning returned to Billings. On the following morning, seated beside the driver on the top of the stage-coach, and behind four dashing bay horses, Manning rattled out of the pushing little town of Billings on his way to Bozeman. He now indulged in high hopes of soon overhauling Duncan, and all along their way, whenever the stage stopped to change horses, he was gratified to receive the information that the man and the pony which he described had passed over the same route a few days in advance of him. The road from Billings to Bozeman led them part of the distance along the Yellowstone river, and through a country wild and picturesque in the extreme. Sometimes winding around the sides of a huge mountain, from which they obtained a magnificent view of the rugged and beautiful scenery below, and again descending to the valleys, they swept along between the mountains which towered aloft on either hand, their rugged sides forming a marked contrast with the emerald-hued verdure skirting their base. Occasional ranches presented the evidences of cultivation and profitable stock-raising. Broad fields and luxuriant pastures were spread before the view, and hundreds of sleek cattle were scattered over the country, either sleeping quietly in the sun or browsing upon the rich, tender herbage which abounds. At these ranches the horses were frequently changed, and the mail was delivered, much to the gratification of these hardy pioneers, who were otherwise shut out from the busy actions of the world beyond them. The country through which they passed was exceedingly rich in an agricultural point of view, the resources of which cannot be overestimated, and the atmosphere was dry and pure. Inhaling the invigorating air as they rode along, Manning suffered none of the discomforts which are naturally consequent upon a journey by stage of more than one hundred and fifty miles. At noon, they stopped at a ranch station, and here they were regaled with a repast which would have tickled the palate of an epicure. Broiled trout from a mountain stream near by, roast fowl and a variety of dishes, made up a feast well worthy of the lusty appetites of the travelers. Here, too, Manning received tidings of the fleeing burglar. His horse, which was a fine one, and peculiarly marked, had been noticed particularly by the ranchmen, so there was no doubt that he was upon the right road to overtake him. After the dinner, and a good resting spell, they resumed their journey. Now their road ran along the fertile valley, and again passing through a sharp defile in the mountains, and finally winding its way along a narrow ledge of rock, where the slightest turn to left or right, a single misstep of the sure-footed animals, or an awkward move of their driver, would have hurled them into an abyss hundreds of feet below, where instant and horrible death awaited them. No accident befell them, however, and just as the sun was going down in a blaze of glory, behind the towering mountains into the west, they arrived at a ranch for supper and rest. In the evening the moon came out, illuminating the landscape with a soft enchanting beauty, as its beams fell upon the tall mountain and the level plain, lighting up tree and flower, and flashing upon the river like a myriad of polished gems. As they rode along, song and story enlivened the journey, and a draught or two from a wicker-covered flask which the detective carried, soon produced an era of good feeling between the outside passengers and the burly, good-natured driver. "Have you ever been bothered with robbers or highwaymen along this route?" asked Manning of their driver during a lull in the conversation. "Well, we used to be," answered the fat fellow, with a quiet chuckle, as he cracked his whip unpleasantly near to the flank of the off leader, who was lagging a little; "but of late we haven't seen anything of the kind." "Ever had any adventure with them yourself?" asked Manning in a coaxing tone, as he fancied he could see that the old fellow had a story which he could be induced to relate. "Yes," he answered, puffing quietly away at a cigar which Manning had given him. "About a year ago I had a little experience up near Thompson's place, which we will reach about ten o'clock, if we have no bad luck." "Let us hear it, won't you?" asked one of the other passengers, now becoming interested. "Well," answered the driver, evidently pleased at finding himself an object of interest, "wait until we round this spur here, and then we'll have a tolerable straight road ahead. I don't suppose, though, that you'll find it very interesting." In a few moments they passed around the spur of the mountain, and the whole landscape was lighted up with a blaze of moonlight that flooded the scene with a radiance beautiful to behold. No living habitation was within sight, and the rumble of the coach was the only sound that broke the stillness that brooded over the scene. The driver settled himself back in his seat, and after a few preparatory coughs, and a swallow of brandy, to clear his throat, began his narration. CHAPTER XX. The Stage Driver's Story. "Well," said the driver, as he set his long-lashed whip into its socket, and gathered up his reins in his left hand, in order to afford him an opportunity to declaim more freely with his right, "you must know that I've been drivin' on this line more than two years, and consequently I know every inch of the route like a book. I must own, though, that I didn't know quite as much at the time I speak of. The driver whose place I took when I came on to the road, had been pretty badly used up in a scrimmage with the bandits about a week before, and I didn't like the prospects, you may be sure; but as I was out of a job, I took this, and I made up my mind when I I commenced, never to put my head in the way of a robber's bullet, if I could help it." "That's the case with most of you, isn't it?" said Manning, good-naturedly. "What makes you think so?" inquired the driver, quizzically. "Why, the ease and success with which stage coaches have usually been robbed," was the reply. "Well, I'll tell you," he answered, good-humoredly, and not the least disturbed by Manning's quiet reflection on the bravery of stage drivers in general. "When a fellow has to manage four tolerably skittish horses with both hands full of leather, he haint much time to fool around huntin' shootin' irons, 'specially when he's got to look down into the muzzle of a repeater which is likely to go off and hurt somebody." "Do you think these stage robbers, as a rule, are disposed to kill anybody?" asked Manning. "Why, sir," answered the driver, "they would just as soon kill a stage driver as eat their breakfast, and they know how to handle a rifle, too, let me tell you." "There's something in that reasoning," replied Manning, laughingly. "But go on with your story." "Well," continued the driver, "I had made several trips and had met with no trouble or accident, so I began to think the gang had gone away from these parts, and that there was no danger to be feared. However, I still carried a brace of good revolvers in a handy place, just to make sure I was safe; though, Lord bless you, I knew I couldn't get at them in time to do any good, if the robbers did attack us. "Well, one morning--it was a cold, raw day in April--I left Billings with my coach full of people, most of whom were goin' through to Helena, although I only drove as far as Bozeman, just as I do now. I had nine passengers, all told, and among the number was an old ranchman named Kyle Barton, and his handsome daughter. I tell you, she was a stunner; her hair was as black as a crow, and her bright black eyes sparkled like diamonds. I knew 'em both pretty well, for the old man owned a ranch out near Bozeman, and was as fine a man as ever stood six feet in his boots. The young woman was a fiery little beauty, and as hard to manage as a three-year-old colt. The old man and his daughter had been on a trip to the East, and were now returning home again, after bein' away several months. Well, the young woman, as I have said, for all she was as pretty as a picture, had a devilish wicked look in her flashing black eyes, that made a fellow kind 'o wilt when she looked him square in the face. "The young woman took her seat on the inside, while the old man, who was hardy and tough as a pine knot, took his place on the outside, right where you are sittin' now. It was pretty cold, and we had to bundle up pretty well, but the old man didn't mind it a bit. He smoked his pipe and passed his bottle--thankee', yes, sir, I don't care if I do--and we were enjoying of ourselves amazin'. "We journeyed along all day," continued the driver, as he handed the bottle back, and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his coat, "and nothin' happened to hinder or delay us in the least. Instead of gittin' warmer as the day wore on, it kept gittin' a dern sight colder, until along about four o'clock in the afternoon, when it began to snow, and by early dark, it was hard at it, a regular December snow-storm, with a drivin' wind that cut our faces tremendous. This bothered us a good deal, for the snow being wet and sticky, would ball up on the horses' feet so that they could hardly stand, and we just poked along our way at a gait not a bit faster than a slow walk. We couldn't get along any faster, and it was no use a-beatin' the poor critters, for they was a-doin' all in their power, and a-strainin' every nerve to keep a-movin'. "The old ranchman was a good-hearted, sociable old fellow, and he didn't seem to mind the storm a bit. As we plodded along he talked about his cattle ranch, the price of cattle, and what profit he had made that year. It was along after dinner, and we had both been strikin' the bottle pretty regular, although the cold was so great we could hardly feel it, when he fell to talkin' about himself and his daughter. We were the only two outside, and he became quite confidential like, and I pitied the old man, for he'd had a deal of trouble with the young spitfire inside. "Among other things, he told me that she had almost broken his old heart lately by fallin' in love, or imaginin' she had, with one of his herdsmen, a handsome, dashing, devil-may-care sort of a fellow he had picked up at Bozeman and taken out to his ranch about a year before. When the old man found out that the gal was gone on the fellow, and that he was a-meetin' her after dark, he ups and discharges him instanter, and gives him a piece of his mind about his takin' a mean advantage of the confidence which had been placed in him. "His daughter, Stella, as he called her, fought against his dischargin' of the young man, and had been sullen and ill-tempered ever since her lover left. He had caught them correspondin' with each other after that, and on one occasion he was certain they had a clandestine meetin'. On findin' out that his daughter was determined not to give up this worthless young cuss, the old man made up his mind to take her away, and he had accordin'ly packed up and gone on a long journey to the East, where he had stayed several months, and they were now just gettin' back to their home again. The old man had hoped that absence from her lover and meetin' with other people in different scenes, would induce her to forget her old passion, and to realize the folly she had committed in seekin' to marry such a worthless fellow against her father's wishes." "I don't see what this has got to do with the bandits, though," now said the detective, who was getting a little anxious to find out what all this was leading to. "I was afraid it wouldn't interest you much," replied the driver; "but you'll soon see the point to my story and what this young girl had to do with it." "I beg your pardon," said Manning, "I am interested in it, only I was anxious to hear where the bandits came in. Let's take a little drop of brandy, and I promise you I won't interrupt you again until you have finished." Here he handed the flask over to the old man, who took it with the remark that it "looked for all the world like the one carried by the old ranchman," and after a hearty pull at it, passed it back again, and resumed his story. "As the darkness increased, the old ranchman, who it seemed had heard of the recent robberies, began to grow a little nervous, although he didn't appear to be a dern bit scared. He looked carefully to the condition of his pistols, and also advised me to have mine handy in case of need; nothin' would satisfy him but I had to get mine out of the box, and after he had looked them all over, they were laid on the seat between us. Not content with this, he warned the inside passengers that there was danger to be apprehended, and that there were bandits on the road. He urged them to have their weapons in readiness, so that in case the robbers did come, we could give them a red-hot reception. The people inside caught the old man's spirit, and they all resolved that if an attack did come they would meet it like men. To tell the truth, I didn't fear any danger, and I thought the old man was excitin' everybody without cause; but I didn't say anything, cause it wouldn't do any harm anyhow, even if we were not molested. "However, I had reckoned without my host, for just as we reached this place, and were a-turnin' around this bend in the road, two men sprang out from the bushes and grabbed the lead horses by the bits. Two more jumped out on one side of the coach, and two more on the other, while one man stepped up to me and demanded me to come down. Of course the coach was stopped, and just as the robber spoke to me, the old man reached over in front of me and fired. The robber fell at once without a sound. Barton then fired at the man at the horse's head nearest him, and brought him down. These shots were both fired as quick as a flash, but his aim had been unerring. 'Duck down, Davy, duck down,' he cried to me as he swung himself from the coach, and a volley of bullets passed over our heads. [Illustration: "The old man reached over in front of me and fired."] "I followed his example, and in a hurry, too, and escaped unhurt. Just then we heard two reports from the passengers inside, and in less time that it has taken me to tell it the scrimmage was over and the robbers who were unhurt had fled, leaving three of their number on the ground, two of them seriously wounded, and the other one as dead as a post, with a bullet hole plum through his forehead. "As soon as they could the passengers clambered out of the coach, and by the aid of our lanterns, we found the robbers as I have just told you. We all congratulated ourselves on our fortunate escape, and the old man was warmly commended for his forethought and for the gallant service he had rendered. "I saw the old man did not seem disposed to say much, but I also noticed a look of grim satisfaction on his face as he looked down at the dead bandit. He then looked anxiously toward the coach, and seemed relieved to find that his daughter still remained inside. "We bound up as well as we could the wounds of the other two, and lifted them to the top of the coach. When it came to the dead one, some of the passengers were in favor of lettin' him lie where he was, but others objected and wanted to take him along with us, as we did not have far to go." "While we were discussin' the question, the young woman, who had got out of the coach while we were talkin', and without her father observin' her, caught sight of the bandit's face, as he lay on his back in the snow, and with a wild scream of anguish, she pushed the men aside and flung herself upon the lifeless body. Her sobs were terrible to hear, and many a strong man turned away to hide the tears that came to their eyes in spite of them. Her father approached her and tried to draw her away, but all to no use, until at length her strength gave out, and she fainted dead away. "You see," continued the driver, "that dead man was her lover. He had been engaged in the business of robbin' stage coaches for a long time, and only hired with the old man as a cover to hide his real business, and to try and win the girl, whom he had frequently seen before. "The old man was all broke up about the girl, but he was glad that things had happened as they did, and he felt sure that after her grief was over, she would not fail to see the danger she had escaped, and to thank her father for savin' her from a life of shame and disgrace. "We lifted the girl into the coach, and put the dead man along with the others on the top. He had been the terror of the neighborhood, although no one knew, until this time, who had been the leader of this murderous gang. We buried him at Bozeman, and since that time we have had no trouble with anything like bandits or robbers along the route." "What became of the other two?" asked the detective. "They were put under arrest, but somehow they managed to escape before they were brought to trial, and that was the last we ever heard of them." "And the girl," asked Manning, "what became of her?" "Oh, she is all right now; as pert as a cricket, and prettier than ever," answered the driver. "She was married some time ago to a young fellow who is the sheriff of the county here, and is as happy as the day is long. You wouldn't know that she ever had an experience like this, and I don't believe she ever thinks of her bandit lover, while she hangs around her old father with all the affection of a child, and the old ranchman is as happy and contented a man as you will find in the whole county." As the driver concluded his narrative, the stage rolled into Bozeman, and at sharp midnight they drew up before the door of the inn. The moon was still shining, and lights were flashing from the windows when they arrived. Tired and hungry, the passengers alighted, and after a light lunch, Manning procured a bed and retired to rest. CHAPTER XXI. False Information which Nearly Proves Fatal--A Night Ride to Helena--Dangers by the Wayside. Traveling by coach is far from being as comfortable and pleasant as a journey by rail. The time occupied in going comparatively short distances is very great, besides the rough jolting over uneven roads which is a natural concomitant of stage coach travel. It is true that by the easy locomotion of a journey of this kind, a much better view of the surrounding country is afforded, and the traveler finds ample opportunities to admire the beauty of nature everywhere spread before him; but even that palls upon the eye when the journey is protracted from early morn until midnight, and the traveler is cramped up in an uncomfortable position upon the driver's box. Under such circumstances, after a time, there is but little compensation for the trials and fatigues of a journey such as Manning had just completed when he arrived at Bozeman on the night before. The road through which they had come led them through a country so varied in its grand and imposing beauty, towering rocks and fertile valleys, winding streams and gentle elevations, that for a time fatigue was forgotten in the enjoyment of the scenes about him, and it was not until the journey had been completed that he realized how utterly wearied and tired out he was. His limbs were sore and stiffened from his cramped position, and being unable to sleep at all on the journey, he was completely exhausted when he sought his couch at the hotel at Bozeman. Being of a strong and healthy physique, however, and upheld by an ambition to succeed in the mission he had undertaken, Manning arose in the morning, and after a refreshing bath and an excellent breakfast, was quite rested and fully prepared to continue his efforts. Bozeman, unlike the other towns which he had passed through upon his journey, was remotely situated as yet from railroad communication, and yet in spite of that fact was a busy and well-populated little town. It is the county seat of Gallatin county, and contained at this time several pretentious stores, a hotel, a national bank, and a goodly number of substantial dwellings. As may naturally be inferred, there was the usual complement of saloons, in which drinking and gambling were indulged in without license, and with no fear of restraint from the prohibitory influences of the law. Failing to find any trace of Thomas Duncan, or "Tom Moore," at the hotel, Manning began his usual systematic tour of these houses of public entertainment. House after house was visited, and the day waned without his making the slightest discovery that would avail him at all in his pursuit. At length, however, as night was falling, he encountered a saloon-keeper, who in answer to his inquiries gruffly informed him, that a person answering Duncan's description and mounted upon a pony resembling his, had stopped in his saloon a few days before, and had gone away in the direction of the Yellowstone Park. This was rather disappointing intelligence, for it required him to retrace his steps, and go back over ground which he had already traveled. However, if the information was reliable, no time was to be lost, and he started from the saloon to commence his preparations at once. While at the bar, he had noticed a sturdy, honest-looking miner, who was taking a drink, and who had stopped and looked intently at him while the proprietor had given him the information above mentioned. As Manning left the saloon, the man followed him a short distance, and when out of sight of the saloon called after him; Manning stopped and the man came toward him. "Mister," said he, as he approached the detective, "ef ye go to the park, you won't find the man yer arter, that's a dead sure thing." "What do you mean?" asked Manning with some surprise. "I means as how the boss of the saloon yonder has lied to ye, that's all." "What makes you think so?" "Bekase I passed the man ye wor askin' about three days ago, on the road to Helena." "Are you sure about this?" "Well, I reckon I am. I couldn't make much of a mistake about that white-faced pony he wor a-ridin'." Requesting the miner to accompany him to the hotel, Manning interrogated him closely about the appearance of the man, and found that he was giving him the correct information, as his description of Duncan tallied precisely with what he himself had already learned. After carefully weighing the matter, Manning decided to act upon this latter information, and to start for Helena that evening. The saloon-keeper evidently mistrusted some danger to Duncan, from the detective's inquiries, and Manning was inclined to believe that the fugitive had stopped there during his stay in Bozeman, and that the proprietor of the saloon had attempted to deceive him and turn him off from the tracks of the unfortunate burglar. Thus far, from all that could be learned of Duncan's movements, the young man was traveling entirely alone. From point to point across the western continent Manning had traced him, and no tidings of a companion had been as yet received. Alone and friendless, cut off from all the old associations of his past life, this unfortunate man was flying from a fate which he felt must be impending. Through the long summer days and under the starry skies during the weary nights, this fleeing outcast was working his way to fancied freedom and security. I wonder if, during the long watches of the night, when he sought the needed slumber which his weary brain and body demanded, whether the accuser's voice was not sounding in his ears, whether he did not start with affright at fancied dangers, and find his lonely life a burden, heavy and sorrowful! It was now nearly eight o'clock, and the stage would not leave for Helena until midnight, and Manning, having nothing else to do, sought a few hours' sleep in order to be better prepared for the long journey before him. The distance from Bozeman to Helena was about ninety-five miles, and from what he had heard the roads were in a terrible condition. Heavy rains had fallen recently, and the mud in some places along his journey was said to be nearly axle deep. Undaunted by the gloomy prospect before him, however, Manning rested quietly, and, when the time for starting arrived, he was fully refreshed and eager for the long ride before him. Profiting by his past experience, he now secured an inside seat, as he would be better protected from the chilling night winds so prevalent in this mountainous country, and would perhaps, be able to sleep at intervals during the hours which would ensue before daylight. The other passengers in the coach were three men who were interested in mining in the neighborhood of Helena, and who, like himself, were bound for that place. They were all, however, rather wearied with their journey from Billings, and very much disposed to sleep. Manning, therefore, stowed himself away in one corner of the coach, as comfortably as he was able to do, and nodded and dozed fitfully until they arrived at the breakfast station at Gallatin, a little town on the river. After an hour's rest and a change of horses, they pushed on again. From this point onward they found the reports about the condition of the roads fully verified. The stage lumbered along through the deep, muddy roads, and ever and anon the passengers would be required to alight, and assist in lifting the wheels from a particularly soft spot, where they were threatened with being inextricably mired. As may be imagined, a journey under such circumstances was far from being a pleasant one, but they all submitted with good nature to a state of affairs which was beyond their power to remedy. As it was, they fared much better than a party of travelers whom they met upon the road. They were returning from Helena, and when crossing a narrow bridge over one of the mountain streams, had the misfortune to have their coach overturned, and themselves precipitated violently to the ground, thereby sustaining serious injury. Upon meeting this forlorn party of travelers, Manning and his companions all turned out again, and by herculean efforts succeeded in righting the overturned coach, and in repairing, as far as in their power, the damage that had been done. With such laborious experiences as these, the party traveled on, and by the time they had arrived at the supper station they were almost exhausted. After this, however, the roads gradually improved, and as darkness came on, they again essayed to sleep. On they went, and the night was passed in uncomfortable slumber, broken and disturbed by the lurching and uneasy jolting of the coach over the rough mountain roads, and the curses of the driver, administered without stint to the struggling and jaded horses. The night, however, brought neither danger nor mishap, and at four o'clock in the morning they arrived at Helena, very much demoralized and worn out, but with whole bodies and ravenous appetites. Manning went to bed immediately on his arrival, and did not awake until the sun was high in the heavens, when he arose, feeling considerably refreshed and strengthened by his repose. Helena, the capital of Montana, he found to be a pushing and energetic city of about ten thousand inhabitants. Here were mills and factories, a handsome court-house, graded schools, several newspapers, charitable institutions and public hospitals, in fact, all the progressive elements of a thriving and well-settled city of modern times. All this had been accomplished in less than twenty years, and without the assistance of the railroad or the energizing influence of river navigation. The railroad had not yet penetrated into this mountainous region, and the Missouri river was fourteen miles distant. To the adventurous spirit of gold-hunting Americans had Helena owed its origin and growth, and its resources were unknown until 1864, when a party of prospecting miners discovered unmistakable evidences of rich yielding gold and silver mines in the immediate vicinity of what is now the thriving city of Helena. Following this discovery, thousands of gold-hunters sought this new "Eldorado," and in a few months a populous community had taken possession of the ground. Within a year after this the territory of Montana was formed, and from its central location and large population, Helena was chosen as the capital. From this time the success of the city was assured, emigration continued, the mines showed no signs of diminution, and the town soon aspired to the dignity of a city, despite its remoteness from the river, the railroad and the telegraph. Exceeding even California in the richness of its gold mines, Montana shows a wonderful yield of silver, which is obtained with an ease which makes mining a pleasurable and sure source of incalculable profit. In addition to the precious metals, copper is also found in abundance, and forms an important feature of the mineral wealth of this territory. Montana is easily reached during the season of navigation by steamboats on the Missouri river from St. Louis, from which point, without obstruction or transshipment, the river is navigable to Fort Benton, situated almost in the center of the territory, a distance of more than twenty-five hundred miles. Here, too, there is a large and constant supply of water, a matter of great difficulty and scarcity in other mining districts. As the range of the Rocky Mountains in this vicinity does not present that broken and rugged character which marks the other ranges, the land is especially adapted for agricultural purposes, and timber of all kinds abounds in sufficient quantities for all the purposes of home consumption. Possessing these manifold and important advantages, it is not strange that the country is not materially dependent upon the railroads for its growth and present development. These facts Manning gleaned in a conversation with the proprietor of the hotel, while he was making his preparations to commence his search for the man whose crime had led him such a long chase, and whose detection now seemed hopefully imminent. CHAPTER XXII. In Helena--A Fruitless Quest--Jerry Taylor's Bagnio--Reliable Tidings--A Midnight Ride--Arrival at Butte City. After obtaining much valuable information with reference to the various localities of the city, from the landlord of the hotel, Manning sallied forth upon his quest. With untiring energy he prosecuted his inquiries, only to meet with repeated disappointments and rebuffs; all day long he labored assiduously, visiting a hundred brothels, saloons and hotels, and yet without discovering a trace of Duncan or his white-faced quadruped. Could it be possible that the honest-faced miner had played him false, and designedly thrown him off the scent? Might not the saloon-keeper at Bozeman have given him the proper direction of Duncan's flight toward the Yellowstone park? and was he not now miles away from all pursuit, and perhaps by this time fully aware that he was being followed? These thoughts flew through the brain of the detective as after all his efforts he found himself baffled at all points. At length, in despair, he sought the aid of the authorities, and was received with a cordiality that was unmistakable, and with a proffer of assistance that promised to be valuable in the extreme. An officer, well tried and trusted, a man of considerable experience, and who was the very ideal of a discreet and intelligent official, was delegated to accompany him during the evening. For a long time these two men devoted their combined energies to the task before them; but as had been the case with Manning during the day, no success attended their efforts. At length the officer turned to Manning and said: "There is only one more place where we can possibly hope to hear from your friend, and I have left that until the last, because I scarcely hope to learn anything even there." "Let us go at once," said the detective; "drowning men, they say, catch at straws. I am determined that no possible point shall be lost and we may only be disappointed again; but let us try." "Come along, then," replied the officer; "but keep your revolver where you can find it, for you may have occasion to use it." "Where are we going?" asked Manning. "To Jerry Taylor's ranche," answered the officer, "as hard a dive as you ever saw." "Very well," said Manning, "we will go. I have no fear for myself, and perhaps this is the turning-point in our search." So saying they started off, and after half an hour's walk found themselves in the extreme northern part of the city, and in a locality which presented anything but an inviting appearance. Although but a short distance from one of the main thoroughfares, the houses were of the most wretched character, and the people who were congregated about the doorways were villainous looking men and low-browed, brazen-faced women. Lights shone from many windows, and from within came the sound of loud laughter and ribald song. They were evidently in a quarter of the city where vice reigned supreme and where poverty, crime and immorality held full sway. Passing through this neighborhood without molestation, for Manning's companion seemed to be well known and universally feared, they reached a long, rambling frame building, which was gayly painted and brightly illuminated. Men and women of all ages were entering and leaving the place, and crowds of people were gathered about the entrance. Above the noise of the clinking of glasses and the loud orders of the waiters, could be heard the sounds of music, and a general confusion of voices that bespoke a large assembly. The detective had frequently heard of the character of a dance-house in the far west, and here was an opportunity to view one in full blast. Elbowing their way through the crowd, Manning and his companion soon found themselves in a large, brilliantly lighted room, almost entirely bereft of furniture. At one end was a raised platform, on which were seated the orchestra, consisting of a piano, sadly out of tune, a cracked violin, and a cornet which effectually drowned out the music of the other two instruments. Around the sides of the room were ranged rows of tables and wooden chairs, which were occupied by men and women, all busily occupied in disposing of the villainous liquids which were dispensed to them by so-called pretty waiter girls, who had evidently long since become strangers to modesty and morality. The band was playing a waltz, and the floor was filled with a motley gathering of both sexes, who were whirling about the room, with the greatest abandonment, dancing madly to the harsh and discordant music. The scene was a perfect pandemonium, while boisterous laughter and loud curses mingled with and intensified the general excitement and confusion. Both the men and women were drinking freely, and some of them were in a wild state of intoxication, while others had long since passed the stage of excitement and were now dozing stupidly in the corners of the room. Manning and his companion stood for some time gazing at the scenes around them. The detective's mind was busy with somber meditations upon the human degradation that was here presented. Here were women, many of them still youthful and with marks of beauty still remaining, in spite of their life of dissipation. Their eyes were flashing under the influence of intoxication, and from their pretty lips were issuing blasphemies which made him shudder. Old women, with a long record of shame and immorality behind them, and with their bold faces covered with cosmetics to hide the ravages of time. Rough men, with their flannel shirts and their trousers tucked into their high, mud-covered boots. Young men of the city, dressed well and apparently respectable, yet all yielding to their passion for strong drink and the charms of lewdness and indecency. A strange, wild gathering of all grades and conditions, mingling in a disgraceful orgie which the pen refuses to depict. How many stories of happy homes wrecked and broken could be related by these painted lizards who now were swimming in this whirlpool of licentious gratification! How many men, whose past careers of honor and reputation had been thrown away, were here gathered in this brothel, participating in so-called amusements, which a few years ago would have appalled them! Ah, humanity is a strange study, and debased humanity the strangest and saddest of them all. [Illustration: Manning and his companion stood for some time gazing at the scenes around them.] The detective was aroused from his reflections by the voice of his companion. "What do you think of this?" "I scarcely know," answered Manning, sadly. "I have seen much of the under-current of social life, but this exceeds anything I have ever before experienced." "Oh, this is comparatively nothing," said the other. "Pleasure is the ruling spirit now. You should be here some time when there is a fight, and then you would think that hell was a reality, and these people devils incarnate." While they were thus conversing, the proprietor of the establishment, Jerry Taylor, approached them, and respectfully saluting the officer, whom he knew, said smilingly: "Seein' the sights of the city, are you, lieutenant?" "Well, yes, Jerry; that's part of our business. But we are looking for a young man who was here a few days ago, and perhaps you can help us?" "Well, if I can do anything for you I will," answered Jerry, who was a tall, broad-shouldered, black-haired man, with flashing black eyes and a somber mustache, which trailed below his chin. "Come over into the wine-room, where we can talk. We can't do it here for the noise." Accepting the suggestion, the three men walked across the room, and entering a narrow doorway in one corner, were ushered into an apartment which was designated as the "wine-room." This room was occupied by the better dressed portion of the habitues of the place, and their deportment was much more circumspect than those in the larger room outside. Leading the way to a table in a retired corner of the room, the proprietor requested them to be seated, while Manning called for the services of one of the waiter girls in providing for their liquid nourishment. The officer, who had obtained possession of Duncan's photograph, now produced it, and handing it over to Mr. Taylor, said: "Jerry, that is the fellow we are looking for. Do you know anything about him?" Taylor looked at the picture a moment, and then answered: "Certainly, I know something about him. He was here two or three days ago, and was as flush with his money as a nobby aristocrat." Manning's heart leaped with joy as he heard these words. He was no longer doubtful of results, and was satisfied that he was upon the right track. "How long did he stay here?" asked the officer. "Let me see," said Taylor, meditatingly. "He had a white-faced pony with him, and I took care of the animal in my stable. He was here, I guess, a day and two nights." "Do you know which way he went?" now inquired Manning. "Wait a moment, gentlemen," said Taylor, rising to his feet, "I think I can find some one who can tell you all about it." Walking to the door, he disappeared, and after an absence of a few minutes he returned, accompanied by a rather handsome young woman of about twenty years of age, and who appeared to be far superior to the balance of the females whom Manning had noticed since his entrance into the bagnio. The young woman came smilingly forward, and seating herself at the table, deliberately poured out a glass of wine, and tossed it off with an air of good humor that proved her to be no novice in the art. Jerry Taylor introduced the gay cyprian to the officers, and the nature of their business was soon made known to her. Without hesitation or the faintest evidence of a blush, she informed the officers that Duncan had been her companion during his stay in Helena, and that they had enjoyed each other's company immensely. He had lots of money, the girl said, and she had assisted him in spending some of it. In reply to their questions, the girl stated that Duncan had left Helena two days ago, and that he intended going to Butte City, where he had relatives in business. Further than this she could not say, and they were compelled to be satisfied with what information she had been able to give them. This was reliable and satisfactory news to Manning, and after lingering in the place a few minutes longer, and compensating the girl for her revelations, the two men took their departure and returned to the hotel, well pleased with the result of the evening's experience. Upon making inquiries, Manning learned, to his intense disappointment, that he would be obliged to wait until noon on the following day before he could secure a passage in the stage for Butte City. As no time was to be lost, now that he was approaching so near to what he hoped would be the termination of his journey, Manning determined not to delay his departure until the starting of the coach. The nights were moonlight now, and requesting the further services of the officer in assisting him to procure a good saddle horse and a guide, Manning resolved to start at once for Butte City. A horse was soon secured, and a trusty man was found who was well acquainted with the road, and who was willing to accompany him. Bidding farewell to the officer, whom he amply remunerated for his trouble, Manning, at ten o'clock that night, leaped into his saddle and set out on his journey. He rode hard all that night, and at sunrise reached Boulder, having traveled considerably more than half the distance. Here they stopped for breakfast, to feed their horses and take some rest. His guide left him at Boulder City and returned to Helena, and about nine o'clock, Manning set off alone for Butte. He pushed on without delay or accident, and about four o'clock in the afternoon arrived at his destination. His first care was to provide quarters for his horse, and to make arrangements for his return to Helena by the stage next day, after which he sought the hotel for rest, and refreshment for himself. How near he was to the object of his long search he did not know, but tired and hungry from his long ride, he mentally breathed a prayer that success would speedily crown his efforts, and that the weary chase would soon be ended. CHAPTER XXIII. The Long Trail Ended--Duncan Traced to his Lair--Caught at Last--The Escaping Burglar a Prisoner. Butte City is a rich mining village in Deer Lodge county in the territory of Montana, and is surrounded by high hills, which contain rich deposits of gold and silver which are taken from the quartz rock, and in the city are situated the furnaces and other appliances for extracting the precious metals from the rocks in which they are found. The population, although largely of a transient and adventurous character, is composed of a respectable, well-ordered community, many of whom have located permanently, and have labored for the advancement and success of the village. There are several stores, numerous hotels, many very handsome private dwellings, and a newspaper. Though not so large as Helena, by any means, it bids fair in time to rival her more successful neighbor, and the elements of success are found within her domain. The local government consists of a mayor and a city marshal, while the deputies of the latter official constitute the police force who maintain order in the city and protect the persons and property of the citizens. A substantial jail looks frowningly down upon one of the main thoroughfares, and altogether Butte City is as well-conducted and carefully managed a town as is to be found west of the Mississippi river. Within a few months a railroad, a branch of the Union Pacific road, had been completed, which placed the city in communication, both by rail and telegraph, with the larger towns and cities located in the South and East. After a hearty dinner and a refreshing bath, Manning left the hotel and sought the office of the city marshal. Here, as elsewhere, he was received with the utmost courtesy and kindness, and with a warm proffer of assistance, which the detective most gladly accepted. He detailed the circumstances of the robbery and his long pursuit of the escaping burglar, and also his strong belief that Duncan was now hiding in the city. The marshal fully coincided with his views, and promised to aid him to the utmost of his ability. He then furnished Manning with the address of Duncan's relative, and the detective started out to find the locality to which he had been directed. He soon discovered the place he was looking for, located on the second floor of one of the larger buildings in the city, and over the entrance was suspended the sign: GEORGE DUNCAN, CLOTHIER. Mounting the stairs without hesitation, the detective entered the store, where he found to his intense satisfaction the merchant at home. He was assured of this fact from the striking resemblance which the man bore to his fugitive relation. On the pretense of ordering a suit of clothing, the detective engaged him in conversation for some time, and after satisfying himself that Duncan was not about the premises he took his leave, promising to call again and effect his purchase. Arriving on the outside, Manning took up a position where he could watch the entrance unobserved, and where anyone entering or leaving the place could be readily seen by him. Maintaining his watch for several hours, he was gratified, about nine o'clock, to see the clothier making preparations to close his store, and a few moments afterwards he appeared upon the street. As the merchant walked along the streets, the detective followed him closely, never losing sight of him for a moment. For a time the man strolled about, apparently with no definite object in view, and Manning began to fear that his hopes of finding Duncan were futile, and that this relative was entirely unaware of his relative's movements. The night was dark and it was with difficulty that he could keep his man in sight, without approaching so close as to excite suspicion. At last, however, the merchant came out of a saloon which he had entered a short time before, and this time he was accompanied by another man whom Manning could not obtain a fair view of. Taking a circuitous route, they at length gained the main street in the vicinity of the merchant's store. Here they entered a doorway leading from the street and ascending a stairway were soon lost to sight. The detective at once surmised that the clothier occupied sleeping apartments in the building, and that the two men had probably retired for the night. His first impulse was to follow them up stairs and demand admittance, and should Duncan prove to be one of the parties, to make the arrest then and there. A little reflection, however, convinced him that such a proceeding would be not only unwise but hazardous in the extreme. He was not sure that the companion of the merchant was Duncan, as he had been unable to get close enough to recognize him, and a precipitate entry now would, in case he was not the man, only serve to put them all upon their guard against future surprises. Manning therefore rapidly made his way to the marshal's office, and finding him within, at once acquainted him with what he had discovered, and requested his advice and assistance. The marshal selected one of his most trusty assistants and the three men repaired to the place where Manning had seen the merchant and his companion enter. The marshal, who was intimately acquainted with the clothing merchant, informed Manning that the gentleman occupied apartments in the building, and suggested that he would be the best man to go up, as in case their man was not there, he could invent some pretext for his visit which would not excite undue suspicion. This proposition was agreed to, and the marshal ascended the stairs. He found the room unoccupied by the merchant and knocked at the door. All was dark and silent within, and no response came to his summons. After again knocking and making a careful examination of the place, the marshal was convinced that the room was empty and that the men, whoever they were, had departed. Returning to the sidewalk, a hurried consultation was held, and it was determined to leave the deputy to watch the room, while Manning and the marshal went to the various livery stables in the town, in order to ascertain if Duncan had arrived and had quartered his horse at any of them. This arrangement was immediately carried into execution, and stationing the deputy in a position where he could safely watch the premises, the other two started upon their errand. To Manning's delight their inquiries were rewarded with success, and at one of the livery stables they found the identical white-faced pony which had carried Duncan on his long journey, and which was now quietly resting in comfortable quarters. This was indeed glad tidings to the indefatigable detective, and he could have caressed the graceful little animal from pure joy. There was now no longer any doubt that Duncan was in the city, and that with proper precautions he could be secured. From Mr. Livermore, it was learned that Duncan had arrived in Butte City on the morning of the day previous, and that he was believed to be making preparations for a trip into Mexico, in company with his cousin, the merchant. Believing that the best means now to be adopted to secure the young man, was to remain in the stable until Duncan called for his horse, Manning requested permission to do so, which was cheerfully granted by the obliging liveryman. Manning therefore took up his position as a watcher, while the marshal went to look after the man whom they had left on the lookout at the sleeping apartments of the clothing merchant. After watching for a long time, Manning made himself as comfortable as possible, and prepared to spend the night in his new quarters. He dozed and slept at fitful intervals in his uncomfortable position, and the long night wore away without the appearance of the much-desired visitor. The stable in which Manning had established himself, was arranged with a row of stalls on either side, with a wide passage-way extending between them. He therefore ensconced himself in the vacant stall immediately opposite to the burglar's horse, and where he could see him at all times. By peering through the crevices in the woodwork he also commanded a full view of the entrance, and was thus enabled to see all who entered the barn. Slowly the morning waned away and as yet no sign of the man for whom he was waiting. How many times he had fancied he heard the longed-for footstep, and peered anxiously out, only to be disappointed, it would be impossible to tell. At length, however, just as he was about to despair of success, he heard footsteps at the door, and peeping through the opening in the stall, he saw the figure of the man for whose appearance he had watched so long, and whose face had haunted him day and night since he had started in pursuit of him. There he stood, not a dozen feet away from him, and as the detective gazed at the unsuspecting thief, a thrill of pleasurable excitement filled his being. In a moment, however, he had controlled himself; and perfectly calm and collected, he watched the man before him. There was no doubt that Duncan was contemplating a renewal of his journey. He was dressed in a hunting suit of heavy brown ducking, with high top boots and a wide brimmed sombrero, while across his shoulders was slung a leather bag, which was filled probably with clothing and provisions. In his hand he carried a splendid repeating rifle, and a brace of pistols were in his belt. All this the detective was able to note in the brief moment that Duncan paused at the door, as if looking for some one to whom he could give orders for the saddling of his horse. Seeing no one about the place, however, he set his rifle down in a corner by the door, and walked slowly down the passage until he reached the stall where his pony was standing. He was now directly in front of the spot where the detective was concealed, but with his back toward the operative. As he turned to go into the stall, Manning stopped quickly forward, with his revolver in his hand, and grasping Duncan firmly by the shoulder, he said: "Thomas Duncan, I have caught you at last." Duncan started as though he had been shot, as these words rang in his ears, and he felt the grasp of the detective's strong arm. In an instant he recovered himself, and his hand quickly sought one of the revolvers in his belt. The detective, however, was too quick for him, and placing the muzzle of his pistol against the burglar's cheek, he said, determinedly: "If you attempt to draw your pistol, I'll blow your brains out!" [Illustration: "If you attempt to draw your pistol, I'll blow out your brains!"] Duncan felt that it was useless to attempt to trifle with the resolute man before him, and his arms dropped to his side. "It's no use, Tod," said Manning, with a quiet smile. "I've got the drop on you, and you might as well cave. Throw your pistols on the ground." Mechanically Duncan did as he was directed, and then turning to Manning, he inquired in a low, suppressed tone: "What do you want me for?" "For the Geneva bank robbery," answered Manning. "You have led me a pretty long chase, but you see I have caught you at last." "If you had been one hour later," said the other, doggedly, "you never would have taken me. Once on my horse, I would have defied you, and I would have killed you like a dog." "Well, well," answered Manning, "we won't talk about what you might have done. I've got you, and that's enough for me." At this juncture the marshal made his appearance, and offering his assistance, the crestfallen young burglar was quietly led away to the jail, where he was searched, and fifteen hundred dollars in money was found upon his person, besides an excellent and valuable gold watch. Without waiting for any further results, Manning rushed to the telegraph office, in order to apprise me of his success. He could not repress a pardonable feeling of pride in the victory he had accomplished. His search was ended, his man was a prisoner, and shortly afterward there came clicking over the wires to Chicago, the following message: "I have him, fifteen hundred dollars in money, a gold watch, horse and rifle. Will sell horse for what I can get, and leave here, with prisoner, for Chicago, in the morning." CHAPTER XXIV. The Burglar Returns to Chicago--Revelations by the Way--The Missing Five Thousand Dollars. As I had received no tidings of John Manning since his departure from Minneapolis, it may be imagined that I was considerably relieved when his brief but comprehensive telegram from Butte City was received. So long a time had elapsed since he had been able to transmit me any definite information about his movements, that I had begun to grow alarmed, not only for the successful termination of his pursuit, but for his personal safety. Now, however, all my fears were set at rest; the daring and ambitious detective was safe and well, and in addition to this he had succeeded in capturing the fugitive, who was now in his custody. The chase had been a long and fatiguing one, but victory had crowned our efforts, and the entire quartette of criminals were now in the hands of the officers of the law, and would be held to answer for their crimes. The pursuit of Duncan had been most admirably carried out by my trusted operative, and Manning was deserving of unstinted credit for the sagacious mind and untiring spirit he displayed. So thoroughly determined had he been to secure his prisoner, that no consideration of personal comfort, or even necessary rest, had been allowed to interfere with his movements. With more than a month elapsing between the commission of the crime and the commencement of the chase, and traveling over a country thinly settled and semi-barbarous, I regarded the victory which he had achieved as one deserving of the highest encomiums, and reflecting great credit upon his skill, determination and pertinacity. Mr. Silby and the bank officials were immediately notified of Duncan's capture, and their satisfaction was unbounded; their congratulations were unsparingly uttered, and their words of commendation were of the heartiest and warmest character. They were now fully satisfied that the vexing problem of the missing five thousand dollars in coin would be solved, and earnestly hoped that the solution would inure to their advantage. However, nothing could be done in the matter until the arrival of Duncan, and we impatiently awaited his appearance. The next morning after his arrest Duncan was placed on the train, and in company with John Manning started for Chicago. The detective had experienced no difficulty in disposing of the horse owned by the young prisoner, and Mr. Livermore, the stable-man, became his purchaser for a fair price. Having experienced quite as much of the discomforts and fatigues of traveling by stage coach and on horseback as he desired, Manning resolved to return to Chicago by rail, and he accordingly took passage on the Idaho division of the Union Pacific railroad, which would be both a more expeditious and comfortable mode of traveling, besides being a safe method of conducting a prisoner. Ever since his arrest Duncan had been sullen and uncommunicative. He was evidently crushed by the sudden and surprising turn which affairs had taken. In the moment of his triumph he had fallen, and when he fancied himself the most secure, defeat and detection had overtaken him. It was not long, however, after they had started upon their return journey, ere Manning succeeded in breaking through his reserve, and in inducing him to talk freely. To the young man's credit be it said, that the first inquiry he made was in regard to the recovery of Miss Patton, the young lady whom he had assaulted in the bank, and when he learned of her speedy and complete recovery, he seemed quite relieved. He expressed the most intense regret at having been compelled, as he put it, to treat her so roughly, and he added, "I tell you she was a plucky little woman, and had Eugene Pearson been an honest man and fought as well as she did, we never could have got that money." "She is certainly a brave girl," replied Manning. "Why, look here," exclaimed Duncan, extending his left hand toward him, upon two fingers of which the detective noticed several dark-looking and freshly-healed scars. "I was compelled to strike her. She fastened her teeth into my hand, and bit me to the bone. I never could have got loose without that; as it was, my hand bled terribly, and was a long time in healing, besides being excessively painful." By degrees the detective led him to speak of his connection with the robbery, and after a momentary hesitation he revealed the whole story, which in every particular coincided with that already told by Newton Edwards. He stated that being in Chicago without money, and without a friend except Edwards, he had requested a loan from him, which was readily granted. Then followed another drinking spree in company with his friend, and during its continuance Edwards proposed the robbery, and explained how easily and safely it might be accomplished. Lured by the glittering prospect and intoxicated as he was, he gave a ready consent to enter into the scheme, and almost before he was aware of it, and certainly before he became thoroughly sober, the burglary had been committed, and with his ill-gotten gains he was on the road, seeking to escape from the consequences of his crime. He professed sincere repentance for what he had done, and stated that this was his first offense, which would now have to be atoned for by a long term of imprisonment. As they progressed upon their way, and when about fifty miles out, Duncan informed the detective that he had met a noted rough in Butte City who was known as Texas Jack, and that this man had told his cousin that, if he desired it, a party could be raised, who would waylay the train and effect his rescue. "What would you have done if they had made the attempt?" asked Duncan, jocularly. "Well," answered Manning coolly, and with determination, "they might have taken you, but it would have been after I had put a bullet through your brain." The quiet and resolute tone in which this was said, caused the robber's cheek to turn pale, as he saw the determined spirit of the man with whom he had to deal. It is needless to say that no attempt was made to effect a rescue, nor had Manning any fears that such an effort would be made, but he deemed it wise to give his prisoner a quiet but firm hint as to what the consequences would be if a rescue was attempted. During the remainder of the journey Duncan was as cheerful and pleasant in his manner as though no thought of a prison entered his mind, and the detective experienced no trouble or annoyance with him whatever. Two days later they arrived at Council Bluffs, where they changed cars, and, taking the Rock Island route, they were not long in reaching Chicago. Manning brought his prisoner to my agency, where he was taken care of until arrangements could be made for his transportation to Geneva. I cannot express the satisfaction I experienced when I realized at last that our chase was over, and that a full and satisfying victory had attended our efforts in this matter. All of the prisoners were now taken, and, except for the solution of the question of the missing five thousand dollars, our work had been successfully accomplished. Another matter Duncan had related to Manning while upon their journey, which, while unfortunate for us, at the same time did not detract from the victory we had gained. It appeared that, while traveling from Bozeman to Helena, Duncan had occasion to use his pocket-handkerchief, and, in pulling it out of his pocket, he also drew out a small package of notes which he carried loosely in his pocket, and which contained nearly five hundred dollars. This was exceedingly unfortunate, and accounted in some measure for the small amount of money which was found upon Duncan's person at the time of his capture. However, this was of comparatively trifling importance, when the important features of his arrest are considered, and when even the amount of fifteen hundred dollars had been actually recovered. On the whole, I was very well contented with affairs as they were, and as far as the bank was concerned, there was every indication of thankfulness and rejoicing. CHAPTER XXV. The Mystery of the Missing Five Thousand Dollars Solved at Last--The Money Recovered--Duncan at Geneva. On the day following the arrival of Duncan in Chicago, he was conveyed to Geneva, in company with my son William and a trusty operative. As may be imagined, the appearance of the fourth and hitherto unknown burglar threw the inhabitants of the quiet little town into another state of wild excitement, this time, however, without any indication of hostility to my officers or their actions. A charge of sentiment had taken place in the public mind, and now, instead of threatened resistance to our movements, my men were received with every evidence of approbation and indorsement. Thomas Duncan was taken at once to the bank and here he made a full statement of his connection with the robbery, the amount of money which he and Newton Edwards obtained, and detailed at length his travels from the time he left Geneva until he was arrested at Butte City by John Manning. He fully corroborated the statement of Newton Edwards about their disappointment in not obtaining, within five thousand dollars, as much money as they expected, and he expressed the belief that Eugene Pearson had taken this additional sum, and had thus deceived both his companions and the bank. He fully explained the disposition they made of the valise, which contained the silver, by hiding it in the corn-field by the road-side; after which they continued their journey unincumbered by the weight of the coin, which they did not consider valuable enough to burden themselves with. After he had finished, William inquired: "Was there no other sack or sacks than those you have mentioned as being in the valise when you threw it away? Did you not dispose of some before you parted with the satchel? Think carefully now; there is a mystery about that sack of gold which we want to solve, if possible." "Eugene Pearson declares," added Mr. Silby, the bank president, "that he has given up everything, and is positive that you took away from the bank nearly fifteen thousand dollars in currency and coin." Again, as in the case of Edwards, the valise was brought out, and the amount of money which was supposed to have been taken at the time of the robbery, less five thousand dollars in gold, was handed to Duncan to lift. Duncan raised it in his hand, and at once pronounced it lighter than when they carried it away from the bank. A sack containing five thousand dollars in gold was then added, and when he again took it in his hands, he exclaimed: "That's more like it; when we left the bank the valise was fully that heavy." "Now, Mr. Duncan," said Mr. Silby, "this test satisfies me that Eugene Pearson is innocent of having taken more money than he has restored to us, and that when you left the bank, you carried away the amount he states." While Mr. Silby was speaking, Duncan had been recalling all the events which had transpired during their flight, and endeavoring to trace, step by step, all that they had done. "I remember now," he said slowly, after a few moments, "that before we concluded to throw away the valise, we sat down by the railroad track to rest. We then opened the valise, to see what it contained. Among the contents, I noticed a small, dingy sack, which was marked 'silver--$100,' and that being pretty heavy, and only a small amount, I took it and hid it in the weeds that were growing around us. I suppose it is there yet, provided no one has found and removed it." At this juncture, Mr. Welton, the cashier, who had been listening quietly, jumped to his feet and excitedly exclaimed: "That solves the mystery! I remember distinctly having placed that gold in a sack marked silver, as it was the only one we could find at the time." Then turning to Duncan, he added: "You, therefore, instead of throwing away one hundred dollars in silver, as you supposed, actually disposed of five thousand dollars in as good gold as ever came from the mint." This explanation appeared to be as plain as the sun at noonday, and it was evident that, mistaking the contents of the sack to be silver, and of a small amount, Duncan had thrown it away, not deeming it worth the trouble of taking. "Can you tell the spot where you disposed of this sack?" asked William, who still indulged in the hope of recovering the missing money. "I think I could find it," answered Duncan. "And if you gentlemen will accompany me, I think I can point it out to you." Without delay, a carriage was procured, and Mr. Silby, Mr. Welton, Duncan and my son William, started off. They proceeded in the direction which Duncan said they had traveled after leaving the bank, and without difficulty he found the spot where he said they had stopped to rest. Alighting from the carriage, Duncan pointed out the place where they had seated themselves, and he sat down in what he claimed was the exact spot. It was at the foot of a little bank, which rose abruptly from the roadside, and was covered thickly with heavy grass and weeds, now dry and withered, and closely packed together. The three men who accompanied Duncan grew exceedingly anxious at this point, for a few moments would decide the question of the recovery of a large amount of money, or its unquestionable loss. Silently they waited, as Duncan thrust his hand under this growth of dry grass and weeds, where he said he had put the gold, and with surprise and joy they saw him draw forth the identical dingy-looking canvas bag. Exultantly he held it aloft, and then placed it in the hands of Mr. Welton, who, on opening it, found the shining gold pieces, and the mystery of the missing money was solved at last. [Illustration: With surprise and joy they saw him draw forth the identical dingy-looking canvas bag.] During all the weeks that had elapsed since the robbery, that gold had lain there undisturbed. Hundreds and thousands of people had tramped over the ground in the hope of finding some traces of the burglars, and no one had discovered the snug little sum which lay so temptingly near them, and which might have been theirs for the simple trouble of taking it. As for the bank officials and ourselves, our gratification at this profitable discovery was only exceeded by our astonishment at the singular manner in which it had been at last accomplished. Then, too, it set at rest all doubts as to the truthfulness of young Pearson's story, and proved conclusively that he was honestly regretful and penitent for the crime he had committed, and had given up all he had taken. At the same time it relieved his companions from any suspicion of having made away with or concealed it for future use. As for Duncan, to his credit it must be added, that he seemed as much pleased and relieved at this restoration of the stolen money as did any of the others, and this action impressed the officers of the bank with a feeling of profound sympathy for the unfortunate young man, and convinced them that although he had been guilty of a serious crime, he was not really bad at heart, and that this was his first offense, into which he had been led by his thoughtless folly and reckless dissipation. At his request, he was allowed to see Miss Patton, and to her he frankly and feelingly expressed his regrets for having so roughly treated her, and her forgiving words were received as gratefully as could have been desired. Our work was nearly finished. Out of twenty thousand dollars which had been taken, we had succeeded in recovering nearly eighteen thousand dollars; the balance, having been squandered by Edwards and Duncan, was, of course, irretrievably gone. But this was good enough as it was, and the officers of the bank were satisfied and delighted at this most satisfactory conclusion of an operation which, at its commencement, promised so little, and out of which such great results had flowed. The party returned to Geneva, and the next day Duncan was formally arraigned. He waived an examination, and in default of bail was removed to the county prison, where his confederates were already confined, anxiously awaiting their trial. CHAPTER XXVI. Conclusion--Retribution. A few days later, and the last act in this sad drama of crime was performed. The four youthful criminals were arraigned for trial before a conscientious judge, and by a jury composed of gentlemen, many of whom were intimately acquainted with two of the accused, Eugene Pearson and Dr. Johnson, both of whom, it will be remembered, were born and reared in the little town of Geneva. As may be imagined, the trial attracted universal attention in that section of the country, and on the day that the court was convened, the town was filled with people from all the surrounding districts, who came to witness the important proceedings. Long before the hour fixed for the commencement of the trial, the court-room was crowded to suffocation by the eager multitude, who had come from far and near, for the purpose of being present at this unusual judicial investigation. Many were actuated only by the promptings of idle curiosity, and regarded the trial somewhat in the light of a diverting exhibition, for which no admission fee was charged; others, from a stern sense of justice, came to view a trial in which crime was to be punished, and the law in all its majesty was to be invoked for the protection of the honor of society, and the property of the individual. There was yet another class, who came from the impulses of love and sympathy and friendship--some who were linked to the unfortunate criminals by the ties of family and blood, and some who had known and esteemed them ere their hearts had been hardened, and before the wiles of the tempter had lured them from the paths of honor and virtue. There were present also the gray-haired father and mother of Eugene Pearson, broken and bowed with the grief and shame which had been brought upon them by the crimes of their beloved son; the aged parents of Dr. Johnson, who had come to witness, with saddened hearts, the doom of their darling boy; the young wife of Newton Edwards, who in the moment of her husband's ruin had, with true womanly devotion, forgotten his past acts of cruelty and harshness, and now, with aching heart and tear-stained eyes, was waiting, with fear and trembling, to hear the dreaded judgment pronounced upon the man whom she had sworn to "love and cherish" through "good and evil report." Since his incarceration she had been a constant visitor to his cell, and by her love and sympathy had sought to uphold the fallen man in the dark hours of his shame and disgrace. Here also was the aged father of Thomas Duncan, the only friend whom the young man had in all that vast assembly. Though his face was stern and immovable, yet the quivering of the lips and the nervous trembling of the wrinkled hands told too plainly that he too was suffering beyond expression in the sorrow that had been wrought by the boy who in his early years had been his pride and joy. When the judge had taken his seat, and the door opened to admit the four youthful prisoners, all eyes were turned upon them. Slowly and with downcast eyes they entered the chamber of justice, and amid an awe-like stillness that pervaded the room, took their seats in the prisoners' dock. In spite of all that had transpired, and with the full conviction that these youthful offenders richly merited whatever judgment they were to receive, there was not one in that entire audience, whose heart did not throb with sympathy for the aged parents and relatives of the accused, and even for the culprits themselves in this, the dreadful hour of their humiliation and grief. The trial was not a protracted one. A jury was speedily empaneled, the low, stern tones of the judge were heard in timely admonition, and the prosecution was commenced. Upon the prisoners being asked to plead to the indictments which had been prepared against them, Mr. Kirkman, a prominent attorney of Geneva, who had been retained to defend the unfortunate young men, arose, and in impressive tones entered a plea of guilty. With the keen perceptions of a true lawyer, he felt that the proofs were too strong to be overcome, and that to attempt to set up any technical defense would only result in greater hardships to his clients. He, however, made an eloquent and touching appeal for the exercise of judicial clemency. He referred in feeling terms to the youth of the prisoners, to the groups of weeping and stricken relatives, whose prayerful hearts were echoing his appeals. He urged that the evidences of sincere repentance had been manifested by all of the prisoners, and that, as this had been their first offense, the exercise of gentle mercy would be both grand and productive of good results. His words were not lost even upon the prosecuting attorney, and when Mr. Kirkman had concluded, that gentleman arose, and in a few words echoed the sentiments of the attorney for the defense. He also expressed the conviction that, while justice called loudly for sentence, yet there were elements in this case in which the wisest judgment would be that which partook of the qualities of mercy. At the conclusion of this request, the judge, with a delicate regard for the tender feelings of the assembled relatives, ordered an adjournment of the court, in order that he might take the merits of the case under advisement, and to enable him to administer such sentence, as, in his best judgment, was demanded under the circumstances. Slowly the immense audience dispersed, and for a few moments the prisoners were allowed to converse with their weeping friends, after which they were again conducted to their cells to await the action of the court. A few days later they were brought quietly before the judge and their sentences were pronounced. Dr. Johnson, owing to the existence of a doubt as to his complicity in the robbery, was condemned to four years' imprisonment on the charge of forgery, while Newton Edwards, Eugene Pearson, and Thomas Duncan were each sentenced to an imprisonment of six years on the indictment for burglary. Thus ended this important case, and the action of the court received the almost universal approbation of the community, while the relatives and nearest friends of the prisoners were compelled to acknowledge its fairness and justice. But little remains to be told. The prisoners were soon conducted to the state prison, and a short time afterward, having occasion to visit that institution, I saw them again. They all bore evidences of the most acute remorse and contrition, and their life in prison had produced serious effects upon their robust persons. Far different was their lot now, to the free and happy existence which had once been theirs. Eugene Pearson, the dapper young gentleman, was put at hard labor in the stone-cutting department; Johnson, the dentist, was assigned to the machine shop, while Edwards and Duncan were working in the shoe-making department. Day after day the weary labor was performed, and night after night the gloom of the prison cell enshrouds them. Weeks will roll into months and the months will stretch into weary years, ere they will breathe the sweet air of liberty again. Within the frowning walls of the prison, they are paying the heavy penalty for their crime, and here we must leave them, in the earnest and sincere hope that true repentance may come to them, and that when their term of servitude is ended, they may come forth, filled with resolves to live down the stain upon their characters, and by upright and honorable lives to redeem and obliterate the dark and painful past. That "judgment overcometh crime," has been fully proven in the lives of these men, and trusting in the future to redeem the past, we leave them to the burdens and the solitude to which they have brought themselves. THE END. 1883. 1883. [Illustration] NEW BOOKS AND NEW EDITIONS, RECENTLY ISSUED BY G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, Madison Square, New York. The Publishers, on receipt of price, send any book on this Catalogue by mail, _postage free_. All handsomely bound in cloth, with gilt backs suitable for libraries. Mary J. Holmes' Works. 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Do. 1 50 Solomon Isaacs. Do. 50 Warwick--By M. T. Walworth 1 75 Edith Murray--Joanna Mathews 1 50 Lulu. Do. 1 75 Doctor Mortimer--Fannie Bean 1 50 Hotspur. Do. 1 75 Outwitted at Last--S.A. Gardner 1 50 Stormcliff. Do. 1 75 Vesta Vane--L. King, R. 1 50 Delaplaine. Do. 1 75 Louise and I--C.R. Dodge 1 50 Beverly. Do. 1 75 My Queen--By Sandette 1 50 Kenneth--Sallie A. Brock 1 75 Fallen among Thieves--Rayne 1 50 Heart Hungry--Westmoreland 1 50 San Miniato--Mrs. Hamilton 1 00 Clifford Troupe. Do. 1 50 All For Her--A Tale of New York 1 50 Silcott Mill--Maria D. Deslonde 1 50 All for Him--Author "All for Her" 1 50 John Maribel. Do. 1 50 For Each Other. Do. 1 50 Conquered--By a New Author 1 50 The Baroness--Joaquin Miller 1 50 Janet--An English novel 1 50 One Fair Woman. Do. 1 50 Tales from the Popular Operas 1 50 ALLAN PINKERTON'S GREAT DETECTIVE BOOKS. 1.--MOLLIE MAGUIRES AND DETECTIVES. 2.--STRIKERS, COMMUNISTS, AND DETECTIVES. 3.--CRIMINAL REMINISCENCES AND DETECTIVES. 4.--THE MODEL TOWN AND DETECTIVES. 5.--SPIRITUALISTS AND DETECTIVES. 6.--EXPRESSMAN AND DETECTIVE. 7.--THE SOMNAMBULIST AND DETECTIVES. 8.--CLAUDE MELNOTTE AS A DETECTIVE. 9.--MISSISSIPPI OUTLAWS AND DETECTIVES. 10.--GYPSIES AND DETECTIVES. 11.--BUCHOLZ AND DETECTIVES. 12.--THE RAIL ROAD FORGER AND DETECTIVES. 13.--BANK ROBBERS AND DETECTIVES. 14.--BURGLAR'S FATE AND DETECTIVES. These wonderful Detective Stories by Allan Pinkerton are having an unprecedented success. Their sale is fast approaching one hundred thousand copies. "The interest which the reader feels from the outset is intense and resistless; he is swept along by the narrative, held by it, whether he will or no." All beautifully illustrated, and published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each. Sold by all booksellers, and sent _free_ by mail, on receipt of price, by G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, New York. 
20985	----	Proofreaders Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 20985-h.htm or 20985-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/9/8/20985/20985-h/20985-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/9/8/20985/20985-h.zip) THE BANNER BOY SCOUTS ON A TOUR Or The Mystery of Rattlesnake Mountain by GEORGE A. WARREN Author of "The Banner Boy Scouts," "The Musket Boys of Old Boston," "The Musket Boys under Washington," Etc. Illustrated [Illustration: "COME ON, FELLOWS; US TO THE ATTACK!" CALLED BOBOLINK. _Banner Boy Scouts on a Tour_ _Page 217_] The Saalfield Publishing Co. Akron, Ohio New York Made in U. S. A. Copyright, 1912, by Cupples & Leon Company CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE OPEN DOOR 1 II THE MYSTERY OF THE TIN BOX 11 III BREAKING UP THE SCOUTS' MEETING 22 IV CATCHING A TARTAR 35 V GETTING READY FOR THE GREAT "HIKE" 46 VI ON GUARD 55 VII "BE PREPARED!" 66 VIII REPULSING THE ENEMY 76 IX RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL 87 X OFF ON THE LONG TOUR 98 XI THE COMING OF THE CIRCUS CARAVAN 107 XII A CAMP BY THE ROADSIDE 118 XIII WHEN THE MOON WENT DOWN 127 XIV THE CHASE 138 XV LEFT IN THE LURCH 147 XVI AT THE FOOT OF RATTLESNAKE MOUNTAIN 155 XVII JOE DECLINES TO TELL 164 XVIII A CLOSE CALL 173 XIX INDIAN PICTURE WRITING 184 XX CAMP SURPRISE 193 XXI THE LIGHT OF THE MOUNTAIN 202 XXII THE NIGHT ALARM 211 XXIII WHAT THE EYES OF A SCOUT MAY SEE 219 XXIV THE STRANGEST FISHING EVER KNOWN 230 XXV PAUL LAYS DOWN HIS BURDEN 239 XXVI THE SUCKER-HOLE 247 XXVII GATHERING CLOUDS 256 XXVIII THE GREAT STORM 264 XXIX A PANIC-STRICKEN CROWD 272 XXX THE UNDERGROUND REFUGE 280 XXXI THE BOY SCOUTS AS EXPLORERS 286 XXXII THE TIN BOX AGAIN 293 XXXIII WHAT PAUL FOUND--CONCLUSION 302 PREFACE DEAR BOYS: While this volume is complete in itself, it forms a second link in the chain of books issued under the general title, "The Banner Boy Scouts Series." You will, no doubt, be glad to find most of the old favorites on parade once more; and perhaps make the acquaintance of several new characters who figure in these pages. In the preceding volume, "The Banner Boy Scouts; or, The Struggle for Leadership," I endeavored to interest my readers in an account of the numerous trials and adventures that befell Paul and his chums when forming the first Red Fox Patrol. You will remember how the mystery of the disappearing coins continued to puzzle Paul and Jack almost up to the very conclusion of the story. And doubtless you were also ready to admit that, hard pressed by jealous rivals at home, as well as forced to compete with two neighboring troops who longed to possess the prize banner, the Stanhope scouts certainly did have a warm time of it, right up to the close of the tournament. The wonderful way in which they carried off first honors at that same competition certainly ought to inspire all Boy Scouts to emulate their example, and never be satisfied with half-hearted efforts. I sincerely hope and trust the stirring happenings that fall to the lot of Paul and his chums, as related between the covers of the present volume, may give every reader the same amount of pleasure that I have experienced in writing them. Cordially yours, GEORGE A. WARREN. THE BANNER BOY SCOUTS ON A TOUR CHAPTER I THE OPEN DOOR "Here we are at your father's feed store, Joe!" "Yes, but there isn't a glimmer of a light. Didn't you say he was going to stay here till you came from the meeting?" "Shucks! he just got tired waiting, and went home long ago; you can trot along now by your lonesome, Joe." "Listen! didn't you hear it, fellows? What was that sound?" The four boys stood, as Joe asked this question, almost holding their breath with awe, while no doubt their hearts pounded away like so many trip-hammers. It was after ten o'clock at night, and the town of Stanhope, nestling on the bank of the Bushkill, usually closed its business doors by nine, save on Saturdays. This being the case, it was naturally very quiet on Anderson street, even though electric lights and people abounded on Broad street, the main thoroughfare, just around the corner. These lads belonged to a troop of Boy Scouts that had been organized the preceding summer. They wore the regular khaki suits that always distinguish members of the far-reaching organization, and one of them even carried a bugle at his side. The first speaker was Paul Morrison, the scout leader, to whom much of the labor of getting the troop started had fallen. Paul was the son of the leading doctor in Stanhope. His comrades were the bugler, known as Bobolink, because he chanced to answer to the name of Robert Oliver Link; Jack Stormways, Paul's particular chum; and Joe Clausin, the one who had asked his friends to stroll around in his company, to the feed store, where he expected to find his father waiting for him. The lads had been attending a regular weekly meeting of the troop at one of the churches that offered them the free use of a gymnasium. "There's no light inside," said Bobolink, in a husky voice, "but the door's half open, boys!" This announcement sent another thrill through the group. Anyone unacquainted with the wearers of the Scout uniforms might even imagine that they had been attacked by a spasm of fear; but at least two members of the group had within recent times proven their valor in a fashion that the people of Stanhope would never forget. In the preceding volume of this series, issued under the name of "The Banner Boy Scouts; or, The Struggle for Leadership," I related how the boys got together and organized their patrol and troop. Of course, there was considerable opposition, from jealous rivals; but in the end the boys of Stanhope won their right to a prize banner by excelling the troops from the neighboring towns in many of the things a true scout should know and practice. Hence, no one who has perused the first book of this series will imagine for an instant that any of these lads were timid, simply because they clustered together, and felt their pulses quiver with excitement. "Do you hear that sound again, Joe?" demanded Paul, presently, as all listened. "I thought I did just then," answered Joe Clausin, drawing a long breath; "but perhaps it was only imagination. Dad's been doing more work than he ought, lately. Mebbe he's been taken with one of his old fainting spells." "Say, that's just what it is, I reckon," observed Bobolink, quickly; "or else he forgot to shut the door when he went home." "He never could have done that, boys," declared Joe; "you know how careful he always is about everything. I was just thinkin' about the Skarff robbery, and wonderin' if those fellows had come back to town. The police never caught 'em, you remember." Joe's voice had once more dropped to a whisper. What he said seemed to make considerable impression on his comrades, for the heads drew even closer together. "But why would they want to break open a feed store?" ventured Jack Stormways, dubiously; "it isn't like the Skarff place, which was a jewelry shop." "'Sh!" went on Joe, nervously; "I happen to know that dad keeps quite some money in his safe about the first of the month, when people pay their bills. Mother has often told him he ought to put it in the bank; but he only laughs at her, and says he'd like to see the thief who could open his safe. Paul, what should we do?" "Go in, I reckon. Wait till I find my matches," returned the scout leader, without the least hesitation. "Oh! what if we should run up against a man hiding there?" suggested Joe. "Well, there are four of us, you know, boys. But what are you doing, Jack?" Paul continued, seeing that his warmest chum was bending down, as though he might be tugging at something. "Look here what I've got, fellows! And there's a lot more to be had for the taking," with which Jack Stormways held up a stout stick of wood, which, coming with some of the hay or feed that reached the store during the day, had been cast aside. Immediately the three others made haste to possess themselves of similar weapons. "Ready?" asked Paul, as he prepared to advance boldly into the dense darkness. "Sure! We're going to back you up, old fellow. Say the word!" shrilled Bobolink, close to the other's shoulder. "Come on, then!" The lads had hardly advanced five steps when every one caught the dread sound that Joe claimed to have heard. And Paul, perhaps because he was the son of a doctor, somehow guessed its true import sooner than any one of his chums. He knew it was a groan, and that some human being must be suffering! There was a slight crackling sound, which was caused by the sudden drawing of a match along Paul's trousers. Instantly a tiny flame sprang into existence; and every eye was strained to discover the cause of the groan. As the match burned, and the light grew stronger, the boys discovered that some one lay upon the floor inside the glass enclosed office, and close to the desk where Mr. Clausin usually sat. Paul, looking further, had seen that there was a lamp on the stand, and knowing the need of some better means of illumination than a succession of matches, instantly moved forward, and started to remove the chimney of this. It was still a trifle warm, showing that the light must have been blown out not more than a couple of minutes previously. Meanwhile, Joe had thrown himself on the floor beside the prostrate form, which he had already recognized as that of his father. He was chafing his hands, and calling out in boyish agony, while Jack and Bobolink looked on with troubled faces. Paul saw immediately that either Mr. Clausin must have had a fit while alone, possibly just after he had blown out the lamp, or else some one had attacked him. His collar and necktie were disarranged, and there was a nasty bruise on the side of his head; though this might have come when he fell to the floor. "If we had some water we might bring him to," observed Paul, when the man on the floor groaned again, more dismally than before. "Back of the safe there is a bucket, with a dipper!" said Joe, eagerly. Fortunately some water remained in the pail, and Paul was able to fill the dipper. It was just then he noticed the door of the little safe, and saw that it was open. This was strange, if the owner of the store had been about to leave when he was seized. And supposing he had fallen in a fit, who had put out the lamp? No sooner had he applied the cold water than it seemed to have a magical effect on the unconscious man. He gasped two or three times, while a tremor ran through his whole frame. Then his eyes suddenly opened. "Father!" almost shrieked poor Joe, who had begun to believe that he was never again to be blessed by communion with his parent. "Joe! What has happened? Where am I?" and as he muttered these words Mr. Clausin managed to sit up, staring around him in a way that at another time might have seemed almost comical, so great was his surprise. "You told me to come here, and that you would wait for me," declared his son; "when we got to the store it was all dark, and the door stood half open. Then we heard you groan, father. Oh! what was it? Did you have another of those awful spells?" Joe still kept on rubbing his hand affectionately down the sleeve of his parent's coat. "Yes, it must have been that, my boy," the dazed storekeeper answered. "I seem to remember starting to get up to put a little box in the safe, for it was about the time you said you would be along. Then it all grew dark around me. I think I fell, for I seem to remember hearing a crash. And my head feels very sore. Yes, I have bruised it badly. Perhaps it was a mighty good thing you boys came along when you did." "Oh! that was terrible, father," cried Joe; "but at first we thought some one had been in here to rob you. That door being open worried me. I never knew you to leave it that way when you stayed here at night." "What's that you say, my boy?" asked Mr. Clausin, hastily; "the door was open when you came? But I distinctly remember that it was not only shut, but latched on the inside! I expected you to knock, and let me know when you came along." He still seemed half in a daze, as though the blow he had received in falling might have affected him. While speaking, however, Mr. Clausin managed to regain his feet, partly supported by his son's arm. "Wait until I close my safe, and then I'll go home with you, Joe," he said; "the doctor told me I ought to take a little rest, and that I was working too hard. It looks as if he must have been right. But I'm glad you came along when you did, for----" He was bending down, and staring into the safe. Paul watched him uneasily, for that open door worried the boy. "What is it, father?" exclaimed Joe, as he saw the gentleman begin hastily to open several compartments in the metal receptacle, and Paul noticed that his hand shook as though with palsy. "Look on the floor, boys, please. Tell me if you can see a small tin box anywhere. Of course I must have dropped it when I fell in that faint," Mr. Clausin was saying; but Paul fancied it was more to bolster up his own courage, than because he really believed what he observed. The boys immediately set to work examining the floor of the office thoroughly. But none of them met with any success. "How large a tin box was it, father?" continued Joe, presently. "Some eight inches long, by half as many wide. Could I have misplaced it in any way?" and Mr. Clausin began to feel in his pockets. Once more he looked into the yawning safe. "We don't seem to see it anywhere, sir," said Paul, who suspected what was coming. The feed merchant stood up before them, with a very grave face. He was clasping both hands together in a nervous fashion. "Then there is only one thing that can have happened, boys! I have been robbed while I lay here unconscious!" he said, solemnly, at which Bobolink gasped. "Do you miss any money from your safe, sir?" questioned Paul, who seemed to be able to keep his head in this crisis. "Fortunately I took my wife's advice this time," returned the owner of the feed store, "and deposited all I had in the bank this afternoon. Still, possibly the thief believed I would keep it here. Seeing that tin box, and suspecting that it might hold valuables, he has carried it off." "Do you remember blowing out the lamp at all, sir?" asked Paul. "I certainly did not," came the answer; "I can recollect seeing it as I arose. Then all grew dark!" "That settles it. There must have been a thief here, then!" remarked Jack, with more or less awe, as he looked around the big storeroom beyond the glass enclosed office. CHAPTER II THE MYSTERY OF THE TIN BOX "Give the assembly call, Number Three!" Presently, in answer to Paul's order, the clear, sweet notes of a bugle sounded through the big gymnasium under the church. More than a score of lads of all sizes began to pass in from the outside, where they had been chattering like so many magpies; for it was now Summer, with vacation at hand. After telling the bugler to sound the call for the meeting, Paul, who often had charge in place of the regular scoutmaster, Mr. Gordon, watched the coming of the boys through the open basement door. "Everybody on hand to-night, I guess, Paul," observed his chum Jack, as he laid his hand on the shoulder of the leader of the Red Fox patrol. Thus far there were three patrols in Stanhope troop. As the first to organize had chosen to be known as the Red Fox, it pleased the others simply to call their patrols by the names of Gray and Black Fox. In one corner of the room reposed a splendid banner of silk, upon which had been sewn a wonderfully life-like representation of a fox's head done in colors. Strangely enough, to some it seemed red, while others were just as fully of the opinion that it could be called gray or black, so cleverly had the silken threads been arranged. This banner was the one offered by the old Quaker, Mr. Westervelt, in the preceding Autumn, to be given to the troop that excelled in various scout tactics and knowledge. The contest had been confined to the three troops along the Bushkill River; and while both Aldine and Manchester carried off some honors, the boys of Stanhope had counted as many as both combined. When the banner was presented to the winners their totem had been ingeniously fashioned upon its shimmering folds. Every member of Stanhope troop felt a thrill of pardonable pride whenever his eyes fell upon the proof of their efficiency. "What makes you say that, Jack?" asked the young scout leader, smilingly, when he heard his chum comment on the full attendance. "Oh! well," laughed the other, "you know the boys understand that we're going to discuss where we expect to spend our vacation this year. Every fellow is just wild to hear what the committee has settled on." "I sent a communication I received from our absent scoutmaster over to where the committee sat the other night," remarked Paul. "He recommended a certain place for a hike and camp; but I'm just as much in the dark as the rest about what was decided. William does a lot of mysterious winking every time anybody asks him, and only says, 'wait'." Paul did not seem to be at all concerned. He evidently had full confidence in the wisdom of the committee that had been appointed by himself at the last meeting. "Why, yes," Jack went on, "and Jud Elderkin, as the scout leader of the Gray Foxes, tried to get Andy Flinn to leak a little; but it was no use. Andy would joke him, and tell all sorts of funny stories about what we _might_ do; but it was just joshing. I'm a bit curious myself to know." "Have you heard anything more about Mr. Clausin?" asked Paul, seriously. "I guess nobody has found out much about what was in that tin box," replied his chum. "Even Joe says he only knows there were valuable papers of some sort, which his father is broken-hearted over losing. You know Mr. Clausin has been just about sick ever since it happened." "Yes," Paul went on, "and three times now I've heard that the chief of police has been out there to confer with him. That makes me think Joe's father must have some sort of idea about who robbed him." "Oh! well, the fellow will never be caught if it depends on Chief Billings," declared Jack, somewhat derisively; "I've known him to kick up a big row more than a few times, after something strange happened; but when did he get his man? Tell me that, will you, Paul?" "Still, the Chief is a good police head. He can look mighty fierce, and generally scares little boys into being good," laughed the scout leader. "But some others I know snap their fingers at him," Jack went on; "for instance, you understand as well as I do, that Ted Slavin and his crowd ride rough-shod over the police force of Stanhope. They have been threatened with all sorts of horrible punishments; but did you ever know of one of that bunch to be haled up before the justice?" "Well, of course you know why," remarked Paul, drily, making a grimace at the same time to indicate his disgust. "Sure," responded Jack, without the least hesitation; "Ward Kenwood, Ted Slavin's crony, stands pat with the Chief. His dad happens to be the richest man in Stanhope, and something of a politician. Ward threatens to get the Chief bounced from his job if he makes too much row, and you know it, Paul. The result is that there's a whole lot of bluster, and threatening; after which things settle down just as they were, and nobody is pulled in. It makes me tired." "Oh! well," laughed the scout leader, "some fine day there will be a rebellion in Stanhope. Then perhaps we can put in a police head who will do his duty, no matter if the offender happens to be the son of a rich banker, or of a railroad track-tender." "Shucks! that day will be a long time coming," said Jack, shaking his head in the negative, as if to emphasize his disbelief. "But do you know, I'm all worked up about that little tin box. There's something connected with it that Mr. Clausin hasn't told everybody. What could those papers have been; and why was he looking at them that night? Did the unknown robber come to the feed-store just on purpose to get hold of them? Was he especially interested in what that tin box held?" Paul looked at his chum in surprise. "You certainly have the fever pretty bad, old fellow," he remarked, "and to tell you the truth, I've been thinking along the same line myself. If half a chance offered I'd like to be the one fortunate enough to recover that box for Mr. Clausin. But of course there isn't the least bit of hope that way." Paul could not lift the curtain of the future just then, and see what strange things were in store for himself and his chum. Had he been given only a glimpse of that future he would have been deeply thrilled. "The boys are all assembled, Paul," observed Jack, presently. Accordingly, the scout leader of the first patrol, and acting scoutmaster in the absence of Mr. Gordon, found that he had duties to perform. Paul, in spite of his wishes, had been elected president of the local council, Jud being the vice-president, Bluff treasurer and Nat Smith secretary. The meeting was especially called for a certain purpose, and every fellow knew that the committee appointed to recommend what the programme for the vacation campaign should be, was about to make its report. Consequently, other business lagged, and there was a buzz of excitement when, with the decks cleared, the chairman of the meeting called upon the spokesman of that committee to stand up. William, the humorous member of the Carberry twins, immediately bounced erect; and it happened that he stood just under the framed charter granted by the National Committee to Stanhope Troop. Every eye was glued upon his face, for it had been a matter of considerable speculation among the scouts as to where they might "hike" for the Summer vacation, so as to have the most fun. William was the exact image of his brother Wallace, though their dispositions could hardly have been more unlike. The former was brimming over with a high sense of humor, and dearly loved to play all manner of practical jokes. His greatest delight it seemed, was to pose as the steady-going Wallace, and puzzle people who looked to the other Carberry twin as an example of what a studious lad should be. Still, William as a rule never reached the point of cruelty in his jokes; and in this respect he differed from Ted Slavin, who seldom counted the cost when carrying out some horse-play that had taken his fancy. The spokesman of the committee looked around at the many eager faces, and then bowed gravely. William could assume the airs of a serene judge when the humor seized him. And yet in his natural condition he was the most rollicking fellow in the troop, being somewhat addicted to present day slang, just as Bobolink and some others were. "Fellow members of the Banner Boy Scouts," he began, when a roar arose. "Cut that all out, William!" "Yes, give us the dope straight. Where are we going to hike?" "Hit it up, old war-horse! We want the facts, and we want 'em bad. Get down to business, and whisper it!" William smiled as these and many other cries greeted him. It pleased him to keep his comrades on the anxious-seat a little longer; but when threatening gestures were beginning to prove that the patience of the assembled scouts had about reached its limit, he was wise enough to surrender. So he held up his hand, with the little finger crossed by the thumb--the true scout's salute. Instantly the tumult ceased. "Gentlemen," the chairman of the selected three went on, "this committee has decided, after much powwowing, and looking into all sorts of propositions, that the country to the north offers the best field for a record hike, and a camp in the wilderness; where the scouts can discover just how much they have learned this past Winter of woods lore. So it's back to the tall timber for us next week!" "Hear! hear!" "Wow! that sounds good to me all right!" "But just what tall timber, Mr. Chairman? Tell us that, won't you?" Once more William made the signal for silence, and every scout became mute. At least they had learned the value of obedience, and that is one of the cardinal virtues in a Boy Scout's ritual. "This committee recommends that we hike away up to Rattlesnake Mountain," William went on to say, "and explore the country thereabouts, which has not been visited by a boy of Stanhope, in this present generation, at least. That is all for me; and now I'll skidoo!" with which the chairman dropped down into his chair again with becoming modesty. Then arose a great uproar. Cheers rang out in hearty boyish manner, as though the committee had struck a popular fancy when it decided upon the neighborhood of Rattlesnake Mountain for the Summer camp. This elevation could be seen from the town on the Bushkill. It had a grim look even on the clearest days; and there were so many stories told about the dangers to be encountered in that enchanted region that boys usually talked in whispers about a prospective trip of exploration there. Thus far it was not on record that any of the Stanhope lads had ever wandered that far afield, every expedition having given up before the slopes of the lofty mountain were reached. There were claims set forth by some fellows of Manchester, to the effect that they had climbed half way up to the crest, and met with many thrilling adventures among strange caves which they found abounding there. But Stanhope boys always smiled, and looked very knowing when they heard about this trip. They believed it originated mainly in the imaginations of those rivals from the nearby town. It can be seen, therefore, with what elation the announcement of William was received. All felt that there was a glorious future beckoning them on. Boys delight in adventure; and surely the mysterious mountain that had so long been unknown ground to them, offered great possibilities. Every one seemed to have some particular way of expressing his satisfaction. "The greatest thing ever!" exclaimed Albert Cypher, who by reason of his name, was known among his comrades as Nuthin. "Yes, all to the good! Back to the woods for me, and old Rattlesnake Mountain to be the stamping ground for the Banner Boy Scouts!" chirped Bobolink, making his voice seem to come from Wallace Carberry, who was never known to indulge in the least bit of slang. Bobolink was trying hard to be a ventriloquist, and occasionally he succeeded in a way to bring roars of laughter from the crowd. "W-w-whoop her up!" chanted Bluff Shipley, whose impediment of speech often gave him much trouble, especially when he was at all excited. One by one the assembled scouts were expressing their individual opinions concerning the proposed pilgrimage, when Paul put it up to the meeting to ratify. A storm of "ayes" greeted the move that this report of the committee be accepted; and the "hike" to Rattlesnake Mountain be made the basis of their Summer campaign. Hardly had the roar of voices that followed this acceptance died away than there was a sudden and startling interruption to the proceedings. A sentinel, who, in accordance with military tactics, had been posted outside the church, came hurrying in, and whispered in the ear of the chairman, who immediately arose. "Comrades," said Paul, in a low but tense voice, "our sentry reports that he has found a window in the back of the church basement open, and looking in discovered moving figures. Our meeting has been spied upon by those who want to learn our secrets." "It's sure that Slavin bunch, fellows! Come on, and let's get our hooks on the sneaks before they fade away!" shouted Bobolink, jumping to his feet excitedly. CHAPTER III BREAKING UP THE SCOUTS' MEETING Boom! boom! Upon the silence of the Summer night sounded the startling detonation of the big bell in the square tower of the church. The assembled scouts, arrested by this unexpected peal just as they were in the act of rushing forth to try and capture those who had been spying on the meeting, stared at each other in mute astonishment and indignation. Every one seemed to quickly understand just what it meant, nor were they long in finding their voices to denounce the outrage. "It's a punk trick, fellows!" exclaimed Jack, his face filled with growing anger. "They want to force the church trustees to chase us out of our quarters here!" "Yes," echoed Bobolink, trembling with eagerness to do something, he hardly knew just what, "it's a plot to throw us out in the cold, that's what! Talk to me about a mean, low-down trick--this takes the cake!" "Let's surround the feller at the rope! Then we'll have something to show that it wasn't our fault the old bell jangled!" cried another member of the troop. "On the jump, Foxes!" shouted William. Immediately there was a grand rush. Some went through the door, aiming to gain the outer air, in the hope of cutting off any escaping enemy. Others rushed towards the stairs, by means of which the vestibule of the old church could be reached, where dangled the rope that moved the bell. Paul led this latter group. He was boiling with indignation over the trick that had been played, for it promised to put the orderly scouts in bad odor with the custodian of the building, who had been so kind to them. The sexton, whose name was Peter Ostertag, usually lighted the gymnasium for them, and then went over to his own cottage near by. It was his usual habit to return at about ten o'clock, when the meeting disbanded, in order to put out the lights, and close the building. Perhaps he might even then be on his way across lots. What with the shouts of the excited scouts, rushing hither and thither; together with some derisive laughter and cat calls from dark corners in the immediate vicinity, the scene certainly took on a lively turn. The bell had ceased to toll, though there still came a ringing, metallic hum from up in the tower. Paul had snatched up a lamp as he ran, and with this he was able to see when he reached the top of the stairs. But the vestibule seemed to be empty. Paul rushed to the door, and to his surprise found it locked. Perhaps the sexton had thought to secure this exit after him, when he left the main body of the church, an hour or two before. Then again, it might be, the plotters had been wise enough to place a barrier in the way of pursuit by turning the key, previously arranged on the outside of the lock. "Hey! this way, Paul!" cried Bobolink, excitedly. "The door into the church is open! Bring the lamp! He's in here, I tell you! Listen to that, will you?" There was a sound that drifted to their ears, and it came from inside the body of the church, too. Paul could easily imagine that the escaping bell-ringer must have stumbled while making his way across to some open window, and upset a small table that he remembered stood close to the wall. He lost no time in carrying out the suggestion of Bobolink, who had already rushed into the dark building, fairly wild to make a capture. Outside they could hear the boys calling to each other as they ran to and fro. The sharp, clear bark of a fox told that even in this period of excitement the scouts did not forget that they possessed a signal which could be used to tell friend from foe. As soon as he gained a footing inside the big auditorium Paul held the lamp above his head. This was done, partly, better to send its rays around; and at the same time keep his own eyes from being dazzled by the glow. "There he is!" shrilled Bobolink, suddenly; "over by the window on the left!" Impetuous by nature, he made a dive in the direction indicated, only speedily to come to grief; for he tripped over some hair cushions that may have been purposely thrown into the aisle, and measured his length on the floor. Paul had himself discovered a moving figure over in the quarter mentioned. There could not be the slightest doubt about it being a boy, he believed, and in the hope of at least getting near enough to recognize the interloper, he hastened forward as fast as policy would permit. With that lamp in his hand he did not want to follow the sad example of Bobolink for such an accident might result in setting fire to the building. Now the figure began to put on more speed. Evidently the escaping party believed there was considerable danger of his being caught; and could guess what must follow if he fell into the hands of the aroused scouts. Just in time did Paul discover that a piece of clothes line, probably taken from a yard close by, had been cleverly fastened across the aisle about six inches from the floor. It was undoubtedly intended to trip any who unguardedly came along that way. "'Ware the rope, fellows!" he called back over his shoulder; for some of his comrades were pushing hotly after him. The warning came too late, for there was a crash as one scout made a dive; and from the various cries that immediately arose Paul judged that the balance of the detail had swarmed upon the fallen leader, just as though they had the pigskin oval down on the football field. By now the escaping figure had reached the open window through which he must have entered some time previously, taking time to lay these various traps by means of which he expected to baffle pursuit. Paul believed that such an ingenious artifice could have originated in no brain save that of Ted Slavin, or possibly his crony, Ward Kenwood. Hence he was trying his best to discover something familiar about the figure now clambering up over the windowsill. The balance of the scouts had managed to scramble to their feet after that jarring tumble; and were even then at his heels, grumbling and limping. "It's Ted himself, that's what!" called Bobolink, at this exciting juncture. The fellow turned his head while crouching in the window, just ready to drop outside. Paul could hardly keep from laughing at what he saw. Possibly foreseeing some such predicament as this, and not wishing to have his identity known if it could be avoided, what had the daring bell-ringer done but assumed an old mask that might have been a part of a Valentine night's fun, or even a left-over from last Hallowe'en frolic. At any rate it was a coal-black face that Paul saw, with a broad grin capable of no further expansion. "Yah! yah! yah!" laughed the pretended darky, as he waved a hand mockingly in their direction, and then vanished from view. Paul thought he recognized something familiar about the voice, though he could not be absolutely certain. And it was not the bully of Stanhope, Ted Slavin, that he had in mind, either. There arose a chorus of bitter cries of disappointment, showing how the scouts felt over the escape of the intruder who had played such a successful practical joke on the troop. "He's skidooed!" exclaimed Bobolink, in disgust. "Wouldn't that just jar you some, fellows?" "There goes William through the window after him! Bully boy, William! Hope you get a grip on the sneak!" cried Nuthin, who was rubbing his right shin as though it had been barked when he sprawled over the rope. "Say, perhaps the boys outside may get him!" gasped another scout, who must have had the breath squeezed out of his lungs when the balance of the eager squad fell over him heavily, making a cushion of his body. "Only hope they do," grumbled Nuthin. "But say, what's that you've picked up, Paul? Looks mighty like a hat!" "It is a hat, and fellows, I've got a pretty good notion I've seen it before," responded the scout leader, as he held the object aloft. The others crowded around, every eye fastened on the article picked up by Paul just under the window that had afforded the fugitive a chance to escape. "It's Ward's lid, as sure as you live!" declared Bobolink, immediately. "That's what it is," observed another, with conviction in his tone; "ain't I had it in my hands more'n once at school? That was Ward in here, doing these stunts!" "Well," added Paul, cautiously, "it looks that way; but how do we know? We didn't see his face, you remember. It might be another fellow wearing his hat. This might satisfy the trustees that we didn't have anything to do with the ringing of the bell; but I'd like to have better proof, fellows." "What's all that talking going on out there?" demanded Nuthin, who had seated himself, the better to get at his bruised shin, and ease the pain by rubbing. Bobolink drew himself up into the window; and as he did so his hat also fell off. "There," declared Paul, quickly, "you see just how it happened to the fellow with the black face; and he was in too big a hurry just then to drop down again, so he could get his hat." "What's all the row about, Bobolink? Have they got the slippery coon?" asked Philip Towne, a member of the second patrol. "Peter grabbed our chum as he was running after the shadow," replied the boy perched on the windowsill. "He's shaking him as if he believed it was William up to some of his old tricks, and that he rang that bell. Now the other boys are crowding around trying to pull him off." "But what about Ward? Has he gotten clean away?" asked a disappointed one, of the lookout. "Looks as if they couldn't flag him," came the answer in dejected tones; "anyhow, I don't see any fellows holdin' a prisoner. Let's get outside, and help explain to Peter, boys." So they went straggling back to the exit, and passed outside, Paul leaving the burning lamp in the vestibule as proof of his story. Peter was an excitable German, who had been very good to the boys. Indignant at what he thought to be an exhibition of base ingratitude on their part, he had shaken William until the lad's teeth rattled. "You vill wake up de goot beoples mit your rackets, hey?" the old sexton was crying, "I knows apout how you does all de times, Villiam Carberries, ain't it? Mebbe you t'ink it fun to ring dot pell like dot, unt pring all de neighbors aroundt mit a rush. Hey! vat you poys say? He didn't pull dot rope? Who did, den, tell me dot? Mebbe I didn't grab mit him as he vas runnin' away! Hello! mister scout leader, how vas dot?" Paul had come up while William was being shaken like a rat in the clutches of a terrier. "Say, Paul, tell him, for goodness sake," stammered the innocent victim, as he squirmed in the clutches of the indignant sexton, "ask him to let up on this rough house business. I'm just falling to pieces!" "Wait a minute, Peter," the scout leader immediately called out, "William was with the rest of us down in the basement at the time the bell began to ring. We all started to try and catch the fellow who pulled the rope; but I'm afraid he got away. He went through the church, and out of an open window. You can see for yourself when you go inside, that he tied a rope to trip any of us when we chased him." Peter eased up his hold, and the agile William broke away, as if only too glad to be able to catch his breath again. "Yes, and Peter, we know who it was, too!" declared Nuthin, eagerly. "That is, we think we do," broke in Paul, holding up his find. "This hat dropped when he climbed up to the window. And a lot of us have seen it before." "Why, it belongs to Ward Kenwood!" exclaimed Jud Elderkin, as he bent forward to take a better look at the captured headgear. "How do you know?" asked Paul, for a purpose. "Well, I've seen it on him lots of times," came the unhesitating reply. "There may be a few hats like it in Stanhope, but they're scarce as hen's teeth. Besides, I've got my private mark on that hat. Look inside, and see if there isn't a circle and two cross bars, made with a pen on the sweat band?" Paul stepped over to the street light close by, and examined the inside of the hat. "You're right, Jud; here's the mark, sure enough. However did you come to put it there inside of Ward's hat?" he asked, smiling. "Oh!" answered Jud, with a broad grin, "that was my idea of a little joke, fellows. I happened to find his hat one fine day at school, and having a pen in my hand, thought I'd give him something to puzzle his head about. So I made that high sign there. Guess he wondered what it all meant, and if he was marked for a Black Hand victim. But you can roll your hoop, fellows, that this is Ward's lid." "If we had only caught him, Peter, you would know it was so," observed Jack; who had led the crowd that rushed outdoors, and felt rather cheap because their intended game had succeeded in escaping. "Look here, what's to hinder us going and collarin' him on his way home?" broke in Bobolink, always conjuring up bright ideas. "That's so, Paul. What d'ye think?" asked Jack, eagerly. "A good idea," declared the one addressed, without stopping an instant; "and Peter shall go along to be a witness, if we find that Ward is minus his hat. Perhaps we might be lucky enough to find that black mask in his pocket, too. And somehow, I've got a notion he had his hands rubbed with charcoal, to match his face. If we found that to be the case I guess the trustees would be ready to admit _we_ didn't have anything to do with this affair." "Give the order then, Paul. Every one will want to go along; but that would be sure to queer the job. Pick out several likely chaps, won't you?" asked Jack. "Sure I will. To begin with, Jack, you stay to see about closing up shop. Bobolink, you and Bluff come with us; yes, and Nuthin can trot along, too. That ought to be enough, with Peter here to help." The German sexton was not so very dull of comprehension after all. And besides, he believed in Paul Morrison. He agreed to accompany the group of scouts on their strange errand, since Jack promised to close all the windows, and remain in the basement until his return. Accordingly the five walked away, vanishing in the darkness. Paul suspected that one or more of the enemy might be concealed close by, hoping to learn what they meant to do; and so he had lowered his voice when speaking. He led the way, passing through several side streets until finally they found themselves close to the fine residence of Mr. Kenwood, the banker. "Say, I happen to know that Ward always uses the back gate when he goes out nights," ventured Nuthin, in a whisper, close to Paul's ear. This was important news, and the scout leader was not slow to take advantage of it. So they found a place close to the rear gate, and crouched low, waiting. Slowly the minutes passed. The town clock struck the half hour, though it seemed to some of the watchers that they must have been on duty for ages. "That's him coming," said Nuthin at length, in the lowest of voices; "I know his whistle all right. He's feelin' right merry over givin' us the ha! ha!" "'Sh!" warned Paul, just then; and as the whistler drew rapidly closer the five crouching figures prepared to spring out upon him. CHAPTER IV CATCHING A TARTAR "Now!" exclaimed Paul, suddenly. At the word a number of dark figures sprang erect, coming out of the denser shadows alongside the gate in the high fence back of the Kenwood grounds. Ward was of course startled. The whistle came to an abrupt termination. Perhaps he may even have recognized the voice that called out this one word in such a tone of authority; for while he did not make any outcry he turned as if to flee. It was already too late, for Bobolink, as if forseeing some such clever move on the part of the slippery customer, had so placed himself that he was able to cut off all retreat. Then many hands were clutching the garments of the banker's son, and despite his vigorous struggles he found himself held. While it was far from light back there, he seemed to be able to divine who his captors were, judging from the way he immediately broke out in a tirade of abuse. "Better keep your hands off me, Paul Morrison," was the way he ranted; "and you too, Bobolink and Jud! What d'ye mean holding me up like this, right at our own gate too? I'll tell Chief Billings about it, and perhaps you'll find yourselves pulled in. Let go of me, I tell you! How dare you grab me this way?" It need hardly be said that not one of the boys addressed showed the least intention of carrying out the wishes of the speaker. In fact, to tell the truth, each one of the scouts seemed to tighten his grip. One thing Paul noticed, and this was the fact that Ward did not raise his voice above an ordinary tone. He was angry, possibly alarmed, too; but somehow he did not seem to care about shouting so as to arouse his folks. From this it was easy for Paul to guess that Ward must have been ordered to remain indoors on this night; and did not wish his father to know he had been roaming the streets with Ted Slavin and his cronies. Of late Ted had been getting into unusually bad odor with the town people, and perhaps Mr. Kenwood was trying to break off the intimacy known to exist between his son and the prime prank player of Stanhope. "See, his hat's gone, Paul!" exclaimed Nuthin. "Huh! what of that?" echoed the ever ready Ward, "guess I loaned it to another fellow who lost his, and had the toothache." It may have seemed an ingenious excuse to him, and one calculated to cast doubts on any accusation that might be made, with the idea of connecting him with the boy who rang the big bell. Paul, however, believed he could afford to laugh at such a clumsy effort to crawl out of the responsibility. "Peter," he said, briskly, "you look him over, and see if you can find a black mask in any of his pockets. You know I told you the fellow who ran out through the church after dropping the bell rope had his face hidden back of such a disguise." Ward gave utterance to an exclamation of surprise. Evidently this was the very first that he knew about the presence of the sexton. "Don't you dare do it, Peter," he said, struggling violently to break the hold of his captors, but without success; "don't you put a hand in my pocket, you old fool, or I'll get you bounced from your job so quick you won't know what struck you! Leave me alone, I tell you!" That was the customary cowardly threat Ward made when he found himself caught in any of his madcap pranks. His rich father was a man of considerable influence in Stanhope, and many a man dared not treat the banker's son to the whipping he so richly deserved simply because it might be that his bread and butter depended in a measure on the good will or the whim of the magnate. But the sexton did not seem to be disturbed. Perhaps he had little reason to believe Mr. Kenwood could influence the trustees of the church to dispose of his services. Then again, it might be that he received so small a sum for taking charge of the property, that he cared little whether he kept his job or not. At any rate, be that as it might, Peter lost no time in starting to search the pockets of the squirming prisoner. Ward tried in every way he could devise to render this task difficult; but then Peter had half a dozen lads of his own over in the little white cottage near the church, and was doubtless accustomed to handling obstreperous boys. "Vat is dis, poys?" he asked, as he drew something into view. There was an immediate craning of necks, and then from several came the significant cry: "It is the black mask, all right! He's the guilty bell-ringer, Peter!" "What's all this you're talking about, you sillies? I never saw that thing before. Somebody must have stuck it in my pocket for a joke!" and Ward stopped struggling, as if he knew it would no longer be to his advantage. When caught in a hole he could whip around like a flash, and change his tactics almost in an instant. "Oh! is that so?" remarked Paul, with a laugh; "well, I happened to remember just now I saw a mask that looked very much like this, down in the corner of Chromo's news-store a few days ago. Now, I'm going to ask Peter to take it to him, in my company, and find out who bought it. At this time of year there isn't such a sale for these things but what Mr. Chromo will remember." "Huh! think you're smart, don't you, Morrison? Even supposing I did buy it, you can't prove I ever wore it. I defy you to," Ward gritted his teeth; and somehow his manner reminded Paul of a wolf at bay. "Snap!" The match which Paul struck flared up. Ward was staring at his captor, a sneer on his handsome face. "Hold up his hands, fellows," said the young scout leader, suddenly; and almost before the prisoner realized what this move might mean, the burning match hovered over his blackened hands. Peter uttered a snort of delight. "Dot fix it mit you, mine friendt," he said, nodding his grizzled head as if pleased to find that Paul's prediction had come true. "Dey dells me dot poy vat rings de pell undt runs drough de church, he have his hand placked like he vas a negro. Dot pe you, Misder Ward Kenvood. I schnaps mine fingers at your vader's influenza. I shall dell de drustees of de church who rings dot pell. Den it pe up to dem to say vat shall pe done. Let him go, poys!" Of course Bobolink, Jud and Nuthin immediately released their hold on Ward. The last flicker of the expiring match showed that the recent prisoner was scowling most hatefully, as if angry at the way he had been trapped. "This isn't the last of this, you fellows!" he said, trying to keep up his customary threatening tactics, even in defeat. "Perhaps you think it smart to set up a game on me, just because you're afraid I'll organize a hike of my friends that'll walk all around that punk expedition of yours! But just wait; I'll show you that you're barking up the wrong tree. Bah!" He turned his back on them with this last exclamation, intended to show his utter contempt. Passing through the gate he vanished from their sight. But Paul, who knew the fellow so well, felt quite sure that he would never venture to complain to his father, as he had threatened, for that course would disclose the fact that he was out, and bring trouble down on his own head. "Back to your meeting place, fellows," said Paul; "and you keep that mask, Peter. To-morrow I'll drop in on you, and we'll see Mr. Chromo. I don't suppose anything will ever be done to Ward about it; but anyhow we can convince the trustees who were so kind as to let us use the gymnasium once a week, that we didn't abuse their confidence. And that's worth while." Accordingly the scouts trooped back to the place from which they had started, where they found that Jack had carefully carried out the orders given by his superior. Peter was taken inside to notice the rope fastened across the aisle; together with half a dozen seat cushions distributed around, doubtless intended to trip any pursuers who might not be wise enough to follow in the footsteps of the fleeing culprit. After that the boys scattered, heading toward their homes in groups. As they went they divided their chatter between the recent happening, and the important news concerning the Summer "hike" that had been announced that night. Paul and his closest chum, Jack Stormways, walked together, as they usually did. They had much to confer about, and Jack now and then laughed as he listened to what the other was saying about the hold-up of Ward. "I tell you that was mighty bright of you, showing old Peter the smudge of black on the bell rope, which proved that Ward was the fellow who jerked it," he said, giving his chum a whack of genuine boyish approval on his back. "Well," chuckled Paul, himself pleased over his little method of proving the guilt of his rival, "Peter got the charcoal all over his hands when he ran them up and down the rope, so he knows there could be no mistake. I gave him Ward's hat to keep for the present too. But it's too much to hope that anything will be done. Even if Mr. Kenwood doesn't attend this church, some of the trustees are connected with him in business, either in his bank, or the real estate end." "Oh! the same old story," groaned Jack. "That fellow makes me tired! When Ward gets caught, instead of putting up a bold face, he just crawls, and threatens every one with the power of his governor. I'd just like to see him get his, some day!" "Hold on. Don't forget you are a scout, and that you've got to look for the good that is in every fellow, they say," laughed his companion. "All right," admitted Jack, slowly, "but I just guess you'd need a magnifying glass to find the speck of good in that cur. He's a sure enough slick one. All I want him to do is to keep away from me. His room is better than his company, any day." "I'm ready to back you up in that last remark, Jack," said Paul, "for if any fellow in Stanhope has reason to despise Ward Kenwood and his sneaky ways, I ought. You know he's been my rival in most things ever since we were knee high to grasshoppers." "But in nearly every case he's come out of the little end of the horn," declared Jack, warmly; "I'm ready to count on my chum getting there!" "Oh! well," said Paul, hastily, "that's because he's nearly always in the wrong, you know. If Ward would only turn over a new leaf, and act decently, I'm sure he'd make a rival to be respected, if not feared." But his chum only scoffed at such a thing, exclaiming: "Oh! splash! you know the Bushkill will be running uphill before either Ward or Ted act on the square. Hasn't Slavin promised to reform more than a few times; and look at what he's doing still! Get that idea out of your head, Paul." "Well, they did give us a run for our money to-night, to be sure," laughed his team-mate, as in fancy he once more saw the struggling heap of boys sprawling in the aisle of the church, when they struck the rope that had been slily stretched to trip unwary feet. "You're right there," returned Jack, warmly, "and I can take a joke as well as the next one; only these fellows have no respect for anything. Think of that big bell booming out at such an hour of the night, will you? Why, it must have startled some sleepers almost out of their seven senses." "Let's forget it then," continued the scout leader; "for we'll have our hands full in getting ready for that great hike up to Rattlesnake Mountain. Every time I think of it I seem to have a thrill. You see I've had a sneaking notion I'd like to prowl around that lonesome district, and learn for myself what it looks like; and now we've made up our minds to do it, I just can't hardly realize it." "A bully good plan, and I know we're going to have the time of our lives. Look, who's coming over there, Paul?" and Jack allowed his voice to sink as he spoke, just as though he wished to avoid being heard by the party he indicated. "Why, that was Mr. Clausin," said Paul, in a shocked voice, as the other walked past them, giving both a keen glance as he did so, while his face took on an expression of disappointment. "Yes," murmured Jack, in a disturbed tone, "and how changed he looks! There must have been something about those stolen papers more than any of us know. He's been to the feed store again to make another search. Perhaps he can't get it out of his head that he didn't hide them somewhere. Poor man, I wish we could help him get them back. Joe's a good fellow, and a true scout. I'd be mighty glad to see him look happy again." "So would I," said Paul, earnestly; "but hold on--don't show that you're interested, only step aside into this shadow. There's some one following Mr. Clausin, and when he passes that electric light over there I just must get a peep at his face. Whoever he is, Jack, I believe the fellow is a stranger in Stanhope! 'Sh!" "Oh!" gurgled Jack, clutching his chum's arm convulsively. CHAPTER V GETTING READY FOR THE GREAT HIKE "Can you see him yet, Paul?" whispered Jack, presently; for he had dropped behind his companion, and his view was slightly hindered. "Yes, he seems to be following Mr. Clausin," returned the patrol leader, in an awed tone. "Whatever ought we to do?" demanded Jack. "Perhaps he may be one of the same crowd that robbed the feed store. And now he is following Joe's father home! Oh! Paul, do you think he means to hold him up, or find out where he lives, so he can steal something more?" "I don't know," returned Paul, dubiously; "but we can't stay here and let this thing go on." "That's what I say, too," Jack hastened to say, as he once more reached his feet. "Shall we call, and bring some of the fellows around? You know how to bark like a fox better than any other scout in the troop. Give the distress signal, Paul. If there's any fellow within a block of us he's bound to hurry this way." But Paul hesitated. "That might do the job all right; but at the first sign of danger don't you expect this fellow would disappear? How could we prove anything, then, Jack; tell me that?" "But if you won't do what I say, I'm sure it's because you've got something else on tap that is better. Put me wise to it, Paul," begged Jack. "Come on then; we mustn't lose sight of that fellow. Walk fast, because we ought to pass him by," observed the scout leader, starting out. "But Paul, you don't mean to tackle him, do you?" asked his chum, thrilled by the prospect of an encounter with the unknown. "Why, not if I know it! He isn't likely to say or do anything when we hurry past him, you see," came Paul's low reply. "Oh! I get on now;" whispered Jack, as he clung to the arm of his mate; "you expect to warn Mr. Clausin! That's a good idea. He'd know what to do, of course." Involuntarily Paul caressed the left sleeve of his khaki coat, where the red silk badge that indicated his right to the exalted office of assistant scoutmaster was fastened, just above the silver one telling that he was also a second class scout patrol leader. "Why should it," he said in reply; "when our motto is always 'be prepared'? But don't say anything more, Jack, just now." His companion saw the wisdom of what he said, for they had been rapidly overtaking the figure that was trailing after Mr. Clausin. The man looked back over his shoulder several times, as though he had caught the sound of their footsteps, and was interested. Paul noticed, however, that he did not show any intention of slinking away, and he wondered at this. When the boys passed him the man simply lowered his head, so that the brim of his hat would shield his face. He gave no sign that he felt any annoyance, and Paul could hear his chum breathe a sigh of relief. Evidently Jack was keyed up to a point close to an explosion. Mr. Clausin was now only a short distance ahead, and they hurried faster, so as to overtake him quickly. "Why, is that you, Paul?" he asked, as, hearing the patter of steps close behind, he turned hastily. "Yes, sir," replied the scout leader, somewhat out of breath from his exertions, "we wanted to catch you before you left the town limits, sir." "To catch me," returned the gentleman, showing signs of interest. "And why, may I ask, Paul?" "Oh! Mr. Clausin," broke in Jack at this juncture, "somebody is following you--a man who seems to be a stranger in town! After what happened last night we thought you ought to know it. There he is, standing in the shadow of that big elm back there." To the utter astonishment of the two boys the gentleman, instead of showing any alarm, such as they expected, seemed amused. He even chuckled, as though something bordering on the humorous took the place of fear. "It was very kind of you, boys, to follow after me to give me warning," he said, laying a hand on each of them. "But this time I rather suspect it's going to turn out to be a flash in the pan. Because, you see, my lads, I just said good-night to that same stranger at the door of my place of business, where we have been holding a consultation. Possibly he took a notion to see me safely home, not knowing but what I might be held up a second time." "Oh!" exclaimed Jack, in a disappointed tone, "then he's a friend of yours, sir? How silly we have been! We thought we might be doing you a service in warning you. Come along, Paul; let's fade away!" "Not just yet, boys, please," said Mr. Clausin. "Your intentions were all right, and for that I'm a thousand times obliged. Besides, you did me a great favor last night, one I'm not likely to forget. I want you to meet my friend. He's expressed himself as one who believes in the great movement you lads represent in this town." Then raising his voice he called out: "Mr. Norris, step this way, please!" Immediately the shadowy figure started toward them. It was evident that the mysterious gentleman must have partly guessed the mission of the boys, for he was chuckling softly to himself as he came up. "This is something of a joke on me, Mr. Clausin," he remarked, as if amused. "To think of one in my line of business being outwitted by a couple of lads. But then even lawyers will have to look to their laurels when they run up against boys who have been trained in the clever tactics of this scout movement. Am I right in believing one of these chaps must be Paul?" "Yes, this one, Mr. Norris; and the other is his friend, Jack Stormways, of whom I was also speaking to you," replied the merchant. "Glad to meet you, boys, and shake hands with you both," observed Mr. Norris warmly. "I've got a couple of my own boys down in the city, who are just as wild over this scouting business as you fellows up here seem to be. And my friend Clausin here, has been telling me a few interesting things in connection with a runaway horse, and a burning house. Such evidences make me feel more positive than ever that only good can come out of the organization you belong to." Of course the boys hardly knew what to say in connection with such a handsome compliment; but they returned the warm pressure of the gentleman's hand. "I ought to tell you, Paul," remarked Mr. Clausin just then, "that this gentleman is my lawyer. I wired him to come up here and see me, as I wished to consult him about those papers which are so strangely missing. You see, I have a pretty good idea who may have taken them, and their loss complicates matters very much. So I was in need of advice. Besides, I was in hopes Mr. Norris, who is a smart man in his class, might be able to suggest some way in which I could recover the papers." Paul was more than ever interested now in those missing documents. He could not help wondering what their nature could be to give their late owner so much distress of mind. And besides, he was puzzled to understand just how Mr. Clausin hoped to ever set eyes on them again. Would the thief open up communications with him, and demand a ransom for their return? These things kept cropping up in his mind long after he had said good-night to the two gentlemen, and even separated from his chum. They came back to him when he woke up in the middle of the night, and lay there in his own snug little room at home, where he was surrounded by shelves of books, trophies of contests on the athletic field, and such other things as the heart of a healthy lad loves. There was something very singular in the manner of Mr. Clausin when he referred to the contents of the little tin box. Paul disliked very much to give anything up; but it was only groping in the dark to try and solve the puzzle without more of a clue than he possessed. Besides, the regular scoutmaster being off on one of his periodical business trips, much of the duty of preparing for the long trip into the wilderness devolved on Paul. School was just over for the Summer, and every member of the troop seemed to be bubbling with enthusiasm in connection with the contemplated outing. Nothing like it had ever been attempted before; and scores of things must be looked after. By the time the scouts got in camp they expected Mr. Gordon, the scoutmaster, to join them, and take charge. But it would be upon Paul to make all necessary preparations, secure the supplies, look after the tents, packing of knapsacks, blankets, and such food as they would need. No one could have been found better equipped for such a task. Paul loved all outdoors, and for some years had spent every bit of time he could during his vacations away from town. He was a good swimmer, knew all about the best way to revive a person who had been in the water a perilous length of time, and besides, had studied the habits of both game fishes and the inhabitants of the woods, fur, fin and feather. It can be readily understood then, how he threw himself heart and soul into the task of getting Stanhope Troop in readiness for the long trip. Some of the boys' parents were worried about letting their boys go so far away; in fact three were sent to visit distant relatives just to keep them from temptation; but this move made discontented boys during the entire Summer; for they had set their hearts on being with their fellow scouts, and felt that they were missing the time of their lives. When only one more day remained before the time arranged for the departure of the troop, Paul, on "counting noses," found that he might expect just twenty-two besides himself to make the grand march. "It's going to be a success!" ventured Jack, as he and his chum went over the roster on that preceding night, checking off all those who had solemnly agreed to be on hand in the morning. "I hope so," replied Paul, seriously; "but I'd feel better if I knew what we were going to buck against up there at Rattlesnake Mountain, and that's a fact." That was a boy's way of putting it; but perhaps had he been granted that privilege Paul might have been appalled at the array of adventures in store for them. CHAPTER VI ON GUARD Just after he had finished his supper that evening, Jack Stormways was called to the telephone in his house. "Hello! Jack, this is Paul," came a voice. "Do you suppose your folks would let you camp out to-night down at the church, along with me?" "What's that?" exclaimed Jack, more than a little surprised; for it had been decided, as the boys would be needing a good rest before starting off on their long and tiresome journey, there was to be no meeting on this night. "Bobolink just had me on the wire," went on Paul, quietly; "and what d'ye suppose he told me? He got a hint that our friends, the enemy, mean to be at it again. This time they are thinking of doing something that will upset all our calculations about starting out to-morrow." "But how--I don't just get hold of that, Paul? Every fellow has pledged himself to be on hand, rain or shine. How can they hold us back?" asked Jack, who had been partly stunned by the sudden shock of hearing such news. "Oh they won't try to," remarked the scout leader; "but then you see what would be the use of our tramping away up there in the Rattlesnake Mountain country if we had no tents to sleep under, and nothing to eat?" "But we have tents, and you bought enough bacon and supplies to last the whole outfit for two weeks anyhow! Oh! Paul, do you mean--would they dare try to dump all that fine grub in the creek, and perhaps ruin our new tents?" Jack's voice trembled with indignation as he said this; for the real meaning of what his comrade was hinting at had suddenly burst upon him. "Don't forget that Ted Slavin and Ward Kenwood lead that other crowd," remarked Paul, soberly; "and that times without number in the past they've shown how little they cared for other people's rights when they wanted to do anything mean. Bobolink had it on pretty good authority. I rather guess one of the enemy got cold feet, and thought it was going too far; so he threw out a hint." "Bully for him, then, whoever he was! But what are you going to do about it, Paul?" demanded the boy at the other end of the wire. "Just what I said--get a few fellows to camp out to-night in the gymnasium under the church where all our things are heaped up. Bobolink says he can come. I'll ask William if either he or Wallace could join us. Four should be enough to hold the fort, don't you think, Jack?" "Sure! We know they're a punk crowd anyhow, when it comes to trouble; ready to run at the drop of the hat," observed Jack, contempt in his tone. "Will you be there, then?" continued Paul, eagerly. "After all, it will only be beginning our camping experience one day in advance, for to-morrow night we expect to sleep under canvas, you know. Ask your father, Jack?" "Oh!" exclaimed his chum, "he'll say yes, right off the reel. He never forgets the time he was a boy, and often says he envies me the good times we have. When will you drop in for me?" "About half an hour from now. Got some things to do first," came the reply. "Do you want me to take my gun along?" queried Jack, anxiously. "Oh! no, it isn't that bad a case," laughed Paul, amused. "We ought to be able to handle things without going to such extremes. Besides, you know, I carried a number of those stout sticks into the gym the other day, and William amused himself fastening a lot of cloth around them, so that they look like the stuffed club we used in the minstrel show last Winter. William is just itching to use one on some poor wretch. Perhaps he might get the chance to-night. So-long, Jack." "I'll look for you in half an hour then!" called his chum. "About that," replied Paul. "I'll have these little medicine cases finished by then. Mother has been helping me with them. She used to belong to the Red Cross Society at one time; and besides, a doctor's wife has need of knowing about stuff that's good for stomach-aches, colds, snake bites and such things." That half hour seemed next door to an eternity to the impatient Jack. Every time he allowed himself to think of the vandals throwing all their carefully gathered stores around, and perhaps cutting great holes in those lovely khaki-colored tents, warranted waterproof by the maker, Jack nearly "threw a fit," as he expressed it, in his boyish way. Finally there was a ring at the door, and the young scout flew to let his chum in. "Oh! I hope you haven't overdone it, Paul, and waited too long," he said, as he snatched up his cap, and prepared to hurry out of the door. "Why," replied Paul coolly, "it was hardly a half hour; and I told the boys to meet us down at the campus of the high school about eight. There, you can hear the clock striking now. You're nervous, that's all, Jack." "I reckon I am, for it seemed to me you were hours coming. I hope they don't try any of their games before we get on deck," observed the anxious scout. "Not much danger of that, because, you see it's too early in the night. When fellows are up to any mean dodge they like to wait till all honest people are abed. The thief shuns a light, you know; and even Ted Slavin hunts up a dark place when he tries to play one of his tricks." Paul spoke as though he had made a study of the town bully, and knew his weak points, which was the actual truth. "Why can't they let us alone?" grunted Jack, falling into step with his comrade, as they walked down the street. "We never think of bothering them; it's always the other way. They just like to act ugly about things; and it's worse since we won that banner for our troop. But you know they're intending to hike out up in the same quarter we've selected? That was done with a purpose too, Paul, mark me!" "I'm afraid so," returned his comrade, slowly; "and just as like as not they expect to give us trouble while we're in camp. Well," and his voice took on a vein of determination that told how he was aroused at the thought of what might happen; "there must be a limit to even the forbearance of a scout, you know; and if they push us too far, we will have to teach them a lesson!" "That's the ticket, Paul. I can stand just so much of this being meek and forgiving; but it ain't in boy nature to keep it up everlastingly. Some fellows think it a big joke. And a sound licking will open their eyes better than soft soap. Ask William if that isn't so!" "It's all to the good, I'm telling you, and that's no lie," observed the party in question, whom they found sitting on the fence adjoining the green fronting the handsome high school, and whom Jack had discovered at the time he was venting his views. "Where's Bobolink?" demanded the leader. "Oh! he was here a bit ago," returned William, who had always been considered ready to fight in the old days before the scout movement struck Stanhope; and who was loth to forsake his former ways, even while endeavoring to remain a member in good standing in the troop. "But why didn't he stop with you? I told him to wait here," returned Paul. "You see, we talked it over," explained William, "and got the notion that, as we didn't know how long you might be getting around, one of us had better begin to scratch gravel. So he drew the prize, and hiked around to the church to stand guard." "Oh!" observed Paul, relieved that it was no worse, "in that case perhaps we'd better be moving along. Now, it may be that the Slavin crowd have a picket out so as to watch the gym, and see if any of us come around. We must be careful how we crawl up to the door. Come on, both of you." They talked in whispers as they made a long detour, so as to approach the church from the rear. "Got the key to the gym door, haven't you, Paul?" asked William. "Sure I have," replied the other, readily enough, "I asked old Peter for it this afternoon. Thought that perhaps I might want to get in to look over the stuff for the last time." "That's good. D'ye suppose they would break a window if they found the door locked?" continued William, who always wanted to know all particulars. "Huh!" grunted Jack, at this remark; "such a little thing as breaking a pane of glass wouldn't stand in their way long, if they had a big job to tackle. I wouldn't put it past such reckless fellows to set fire to the church if hard pushed. If they stopped at that it would only be from fear of being found out, and punished by the law, not anything else. Huh! don't I know that Ted, though?" "'Sh!" came from Paul at this juncture, and all of them lapsed into absolute silence; for they were now drawing near the old stone building that had sheltered the leading congregation of Stanhope since before the Civil War. Paul had been observing things as he came along. First of all he noted that it was not as dark a night as when the bell of the church had been suddenly tolled. A young moon hung tremblingly in the western sky, promising to increase steadily in size, and give them more than one brilliant night while on their big excursion. Besides, an electric street light was in full force that had been out of business the other night. He also noted the lay of the land near the church. This was familiar to him, as he had played around this spot, off and on, for years. Paul knew just where every tree reared its leafy branches, and could easily in his mind plan a mode of approaching the rear of the building without once leaving the shelter of the shadows. So they stalked along, and were soon hugging the stone walls. Thus far all seemed quiet and peaceful. If any of the Slavin crowd were in the near vicinity they must be keeping under cover. A pinch on his arm told Paul that Jack, with his keen eyes, had discovered something he deemed suspicious. "Where?" he managed faintly to whisper in the ear of his chum. "Ahead, by the sun dial," came in reply. Paul remembered that something had happened to the old fashioned sun-dial that used to stand in the cemetery connected with the church; and that it had been placed up against the wall of the building. He knew, because he had once fallen over it in the darkness. Looking closely he could just make out some object seemingly perched on the stone that offered a seat to the weary one. It might be Bobolink, and then again there was always a possibility that the figure would prove to be that of an enemy on the watch. Paul had instituted a system of signals whereby two scouts of the Stanhope troop could communicate, should they happen to draw near one another in the dark, and wish to unite forces. Accordingly he now took a little piece of wood out of his pocket, also a steel nail, and with the latter tapped several times upon the bit of veneering. Immediately they saw the sitting boy begin to fumble, as though he might be getting something out of his pocket. Then came an answering series of staccato taps, soft yet clear. "O. K." "Number Three," whispered Paul, gently. "I'm your candy!" came the reply, as the figure stood up at attention. "Anything doing around here?" asked Jack, cautiously as they joined forces. "Haven't seen a blessed thing but a young rabbit, that came nosing around. Guess that swift bunch hasn't showed up yet," returned the sentry. "It's just as well," remarked Paul; "and please talk in whispers. Here's the door, so just wait till I unlock it." A minute later and they found themselves inside the basement of the church, which was used as a gymnasium for the boys; there being no Y. M. C. A. in the town. "Do we get a light?" asked Bobolink, as he stared into the darkness. "Better not," advised Paul, "for that would give the whole thing away. The whole stack of things is piled up in the center, so we needn't tumble over it. And William, you know where to put your hand on those clubs, don't you?" "That's a cinch," chuckled the other, quickly. "You fellows just hang out here, and let me get busy. Oh! what a chance it looks like to try my little game of tag. Talk to me about baseball! Why, it won't be in the same class with what we'll do to the other fellows, if they give us half a chance! Oh! me, oh! my! yum, yum!" William came back presently, and handed each of his mates one of the padded clubs he had worked on so industriously, in the expectation that some fine day they might come in useful. Perhaps that hour had arrived; at least William had high hopes. Paul, meanwhile, had secured some blankets from the pile, and each of them made as comfortable a bed as was possible in the darkness. "Nothing like getting used to bunking on the hard floor?" grunted Bobolink, after he had fussed around for fully ten minutes, complaining that the boards hurt his bones when he lay on his side. "Now silence!" came from Paul, in a tone of authority; and after that no one dared to utter a single word in the way of conversation. CHAPTER VII "BE PREPARED" "Paul!" Jack's groping hand gripped the arm of his chum as he gave vent to this whisper. "Yes," came the low reply close at hand, showing that Paul was awake, and alert. "Did you hear it?" asked Jack, eagerly. Bobolink was breathing heavily on his blankets, and it seemed as though he must have been the first one to get to sleep, after all his complaining about the hardness of his bed. "Yes. Some one shook the door," answered the patrol leader, still whispering. "That was what I thought. Shall I wake Bobolink and William?" asked Jack. "Let me do it. If one of them gave a shout it would tell that we had a guard in here." Paul, while saying this, started to crawl to where Number Three was enjoying a nap. He shook him gently, and when that failed to arouse Bobolink, the motion was increased. "Hey! what are you----" but further sound was instantly cut off by Paul's clapping his hand over Bobolink's mouth. "Keep still! They're at the door right now!" he breathed into the ear of the struggling one. That seemed to tell Bobolink what it all meant. No doubt his first impression had been that the enemy had stolen a march on them, and meant to make them prisoners in their own quarters. He ceased to squirm, and encouraged by this Paul by degrees removed his muffling hand, so that Bobolink could breathe freely again. The sounds had commenced once more. William was also sitting up by now, and fairly quivering with eagerness, as he fondled the extra large club he had selected for his individual use. Voices, too, reached their ears, as though the unknown parties without, finding themselves balked by the fact that the door was locked, were conferring as to how they might gain entrance. "Maybe they've gone and made a duplicate key," suggested William, as he and the other three scouts put their heads close together. No one thought it at all out of the question. They had run up against these energetic plotters so often in the past, that they were well acquainted with their ways; and nothing surprised them in connection with Ted Slavin's crowd. "Perhaps we'd better move closer to the door, so as to be ready in case they do push in," Paul said, leading the way. Creeping across the floor of the gymnasium, they hovered close to the entrance. All of them gripped their novel weapons of offense and defense with a grim determination to give a good account of themselves when the chance arrived. As for William, he was fairly shivering with impatience. Several times he swished his club through the air, as though eager to test its qualities on an unlucky intruder; so that Paul had finally to warn him against such indiscreet action. The voices without came more plainly now. Evidently the plotters were disputing as to their best course under the circumstances, some being for one thing, and the balance for another. "Oh! rats!" came a voice that Paul easily recognized as belonging to Ted Slavin himself; "Who's afraid? Go get the old gravestone, boys, and we'll ram her through the door like soup. It's only a weak door anyhow." "Yes," came in Ward's cautious tones, "but that would be destroying church property, and we could be punished for it. Better try and open a window, fellows. Bud here knows where there's a weak catch, don't you, Bud?" "Huh! I unscrewed the catch myself," came in still another voice; "that's how it's weak. But we can get in that way easy, boys. If you say the word, Ted, I'll creep in and open the door in the back, where old Peter chases his ashes out in Winter time." "You're the candy-boy, Bud. Do it right away. And we'll be awaitin' there at the ash door, ready to push in when you open up. Get a move on you, now." When Ted spoke in that strain he meant business, and few among his cronies ever dared hesitate. He ruled his camp followers through sheer force of brutal instincts; and many a head had ached in consequence of that bony fist coming in contact with it, when a dispute had to be settled. Paul gave a tug at the sleeve of Jack, who, recognizing the signal, passed it on to William; and in turn he notified the remaining member of the quartette. Thus they were presently all in motion, making a careful detour around the pile of camping material that occupied the middle of the floor. Some boys seem to be gifted with the remarkable faculty of seeing in the dark, that a cat enjoys. Jack was of the opinion that his chum must surely be favored in this way, judging from his success in moving about through that darkness without tumbling over obstacles. The furnace room was off the gymnasium. Gaining the door Paul passed through, and presently came to a number of metal receptacles in which old Peter stored the ashes until such time as he thought fit to get a wagon around to take the refuse away. Most of them were still full and running over, for Peter had kept putting off his last cleaning up, owing to an attack of rheumatism. "Every fellow pick out his can and hide behind it," whispered Paul. When he understood that this had been done he himself slipped back to the connecting door, intending to watch for the coming of Bud. Presently sounds proceeded from a window near by, one of the small ones that in the daytime gave light to the gymnasium. Looking intently in that quarter, Paul was soon able to make out a moving object; for he had the sky with its stars and young moon as a background. Then came a series of grunts, announcing that Bud was pushing his way in through the little opening, after having gently forced the catch of the swinging window. Paul could hear the sound of his heels striking on the boards of the gymnasium floor. And just as he had anticipated, the intruder was supplied with matches, for he immediately struck a light, in order to look around, and get his bearings. Paul thought it time to beat a silent retreat in the direction of the ashcan he had selected as his cover. When settling down he managed to give the signal that the other three would recognize as denoting caution, and that they must remain on the alert every second of the time. Now Bud was coming. Paul could hear him stumbling along, grumbling when he banged into the open door, simply because his sense of observation had not been so highly developed as had that of the young scout leader. But by striking another match Bud managed to locate the cause of his trouble. He was glimpsed by Paul, spying around the edge of his screen, and seemed to be rubbing his forehead vigorously, as though he might have raised a lump there in his contact with the door. Some one pounded from without. "Hi! there, Bud, what's keeping you?" demanded Ted, gruffly, unable to control his impatience. "All right, I'm here. But you'll have to wait a little, fellers," said Bud, who had struck a third match in order to size up the situation around the neighborhood of the exit. It was rather strange that in looking about him he failed to discover some sign of the presence of those four forms cowering behind as many tall ashcans; but perhaps this was because they managed to keep well out of sight. "What's the matter in there? Why don't you open up?" called Ted, again rapping his knuckles on the wooden barrier. "Hold on! There's a lot of cans heaped up with ashes in the way. I'll have to move a bunch of 'em first, before I kin open the door," declared Bud; and to himself he muttered: "and I just don't like the looks of this hole any too much, tell yuh that, now. Reckon theys a hull heap of rats ahangin' around here. Ugh! what a fool I was to come in here anyhow. Gee! listen, would you?" A sudden squealing sounded somewhere close to the feet of Bud. It was exactly like the angry cry of a fighting rat. But Paul understood instantly that Bobolink must be the cause of all this racket; for he had known his friend on numerous occasions to make good use of his gift as an amateur ventriloquist. Bud was in a terrible state of mind. Being very much afraid of rats he would have fled from the spot could he have known which way to go. Twice he tried to strike a match, but each attempt proved a failure, on account of his extreme nervousness. And now he had no more matches with him, so that it was impossible to see the connecting door, through which his retreat must be conducted. Ted was growing more and more angry outside. He used his knuckles on the door again, to emphasize his demand. "Open up here, you lazybones! What ails you?" he roared, discretion giving way to rage at the delay, when his fingers were fairly itching to lay hold of those tents, and the balance of the camp stuff belonging to the boys he detested so much. "Oh! I'm trying to do it, Ted;" answered his tool within, "but you see the place is alive with great big rats. They're all around me in here, and wanting to take a nip out of my legs. Oh! get out of that, hang you! One got me then! I bet he took a piece out of me as big as a baseball. They'll eat me alive! Help! Help!" But Bud was mistaken. It was Bobolink who had pinched him on the sly. Still, since the other did not know this, his terror was just as much in evidence. "Hurry up there, unless you want us to break the old door in!" called Ted. "Ah! go roll your hoop!" called out a voice just like the sharp twanging tones belonging to Bud. "What's that you say?" shouted the astonished and enraged Ted, who believed his slave was rising up in rebellion. "Go chase yourself! I'm openin' as fast as I kin, an' if you talk till you're blind I aint agoin' to hurry any faster!" Bobolink made Bud appear to say. "Aint, hey? Just wait till I get hold of you, Bud Jones; if I don't make you eat them words, my name is mud!" exclaimed the furious leader, outside. "Oh! I never said a word, Ted, sure I didn't!" cried Bud, still wrestling with the ashcans in the darkness, and kicking right and left at imaginary rats which he believed were advancing in a drove to snap at his shins. "Oh! yes, tell that to the ducks, will you? Every feller here heard what you said, too. I'm goin' to make you eat it just as soon as I get hold of you!" declared the furious leader, still bruising his knuckles in useless attacks on the boards of the door. Bud Jones was in the most terrible predicament of his whole life. Beset by innumerable fierce foes as he believed within, there was that big bully outside, only waiting for a chance to give him a thrashing he would never forget. And the mysterious voice that sounded exactly like his own, startled him; for, not being a friend of Bobolink's he probably never heard him give those strange imitations when making his voice appear to come from some other person. "I've got hold of the last can, Ted!" he wailed, presently, after much tugging and another series of wild kicks into space; though he sometimes bruised his toe by striking it against one of the ash receptacles near by; "and I'm going to open up now; but please don't touch me. I never said a word against you, Ted; it must have been the rats, I guess!" Bobolink could hardly keep from bursting into a shout at this, for he knew that poor Bud must be very near a complete breakdown through fright. "Here it goes, fellers. Now I'm startin' to tackle the door, if the varmints will give me half a chance," the intruder called out once more. He could be heard working away with all his energy at the heavy bar that secured the door, now and then giving a dismal little squeal, as in imagination he felt the sharp teeth of a rodent nipping him again cruelly. "Oh! there it goes, Ted!" he cried suddenly, as the bar fell on his feet. The door swung open, knocking poor Bud over; for there was an immediate rush of many eager figures. So Ted Slavin led his backers into the furnace room of the church, where Paul lay secreted behind an ashcan, flanked by three of his trusty and loyal scouts. CHAPTER VIII REPULSING THE ENEMY "Wow! go slow, fellers!" called the first boy who pushed into the basement, urged on by the pressure of his comrades in the rear. "It's as black as a bag of cats, that's what!" exclaimed another, as he floundered among the ashcans. "Oh! I'm nearly smothered! Help me out, somebody!" wailed poor Bud, who managed to receive a full peck of ashes over his head as he scrambled on the floor. "A light! Hold up till we get the glim goin'!" called Ted Slavin, who had after all managed to twist around at the end, so that when the door finally opened he could push others ahead of him into the unknown depths of the gloom. That was often Ted's way. He liked to bluster and rage, but frequently came out of a scrimmage in far better physical condition than those who had said less. Some boys can always keep an eye out for the main chance; and Ted seemed to belong to the number. Now, the church was usually lighted by electricity. Of late there had occurred some serious trouble with the insulation, and the main part of the structure had to go back to ancient lamp illumination, when any occasion arose. As this was Summer, the night services had been discontinued until repairs could be made. Paul, however, chanced to know that the little circuit in this rear basement had escaped the general slaughter. He had even tried turning on the light at one time when poking about curiously. And when he had taken up his location just now, it was close to the button which governed the two electric lights in the furnace room. Paul thought that the time was about ripe to give these intruders the surprise of their lives. Up to this moment they had been having things their own way; but why should he wait until some one managed to draw a match out of his pocket, and faintly illuminate the apartment? While the followers of Ted were groping about among the scattered cans, and Bud was sneezing violently as he tried to gain his feet there was suddenly a flash of dazzling light that almost blinded every one. At exactly the same instant there sounded the eager barking of what, to the alarmed intruders, seemed to be a small dog. But it was the signal of the Fox Patrol, and possessed a positive significance for every member of Stanhope Troop. "Oh! look!" almost shrieked Bud, as, having managed to recover his balance, he saw the figures of four active boys shoot up into view from behind as many tall ash receivers. The Boy Scouts never halted to count their foes. It was an occasion calling for speedy action. Indeed, if they wished to take full advantage of the surprise, and complete the demoralization of the intruders, they must follow up their appearance on the scene with prompt measures. "At 'em, fellows!" cried Paul, suiting the action to the word by smiting the nearest of the Slavin crowd with the padded club he wielded. Scissors Dempsey promptly bowled over among the ashes, surprised, if not seriously hurt. "Sweep 'em out!" exclaimed Jack, whirling his instrument of torture around his head, and sending at least two of the intruders reeling. Immediately a regular pandemonium ensued. Ted saw that he had run into a hornet's nest, and like the wise general that he was, concluded that it was no place for a fellow who had any self respect. Their little game was spoiled, that seemed evident, and it would be the height of folly to think of conducting a fight in the church basement, especially since punishment of a worse nature must follow when their parents learned about the disgraceful proceedings. Accordingly Ted gave the order to retreat. "Skip out, every duck of you, Tigers!" he called, hoarsely; "Hey! get a move on you, Scissors, Bud,--everybody run!" The spirit was willing with his followers; but the flesh proved weak. The trouble was, they found themselves kept so busy dodging the descending padded clubs of Paul and his friends, that they had little time for maneuvring toward the lone exit. William was in his glory. Long had he been deprived of his favorite amusement; and he meant to take full advantage of this glorious opportunity to let the red blood in his veins have free swing. The way he whacked at the ducking followers of Ted was certainly marvellous, and every time he made a hit he let out a series of gratified barks such as must have astonished any real red fox of the timber. One by one, however, the badly-used intruders sped out of the rear door, pursued by a parting volley of vigorous strokes, and breathing threats as they ran off. From the interior of the gymnasium came a series of noises that could mean only one thing--despairing of escaping in the same manner as his companions, who were lucky enough to be nearer the exit, Scissors had darted through the connecting door, and that was him banging headlong into posts, or tripping over the various stacks of camping material on the floor. The furnace room was hazy with dust, occasioned by the tilting over of several ashcans; but Paul could see that the enemy had been almost wholly expelled. Among scouts a peculiar custom often prevails. Each boy makes up his mind to do some sort of good turn to somebody during the day. In order to remind himself of this he frequently turns his badge upside-down until he has found an occasion to even the score. No matter how small the service, it must be something that brings a little pleasure or profit to another. Well, Paul grimly thought, as he drew out his handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his face, if any of his chums had failed to find a chance during the day just past, to perform a service entitling them to a sense of self satisfaction, after this little excitement they could go to bed with clear consciences. For had they not shown several boys the truth of the old proverb, that the "way of the transgressor is hard," and would not this lesson be valuable in after life? "Oh! shucks!" lamented William, as he leaned on his war-club, and looked as forlorn as one of his merry disposition ever could, "whatever did they run away for? I wasn't half through, yet. Why, I don't believe I got in more than three decent licks at all! It's a shame, that's what!" Paul was shutting and fastening the door again. He did not wish to have a volley of stones hurled through the opening by the vindictive boys they had put to flight. Past experiences served to warn him as to what measures of retribution Ted Slavin and his kind usually undertook. "Whew! what a mess! We'll have to get brooms, and a sprinkler busy here, so Peter won't complain," he said, laughing as he looked around. "Hello! look there! Get next to the ghost, will you?" cried William, pointing to a wretched and forlorn figure that was emerging from the midst of the assembled ashes. It was the fore-runner of the Slavin clan, the miserable Bud Jones. He had been tumbled over so many times during the excitement, by both friends and foes, that he must have lost all count. "Oh! what a guy!" shrieked Bobolink, holding his sides with laughter, as the disconsolate Bud trailed out from his place of concealment. Covered from head to feet with ashes, and minus his hat, he certainly presented a most comical appearance. But it was serious enough to Bud. He judged others by what he knew of Ted Slavin's ways; and consequently fully expected that Paul and his crowd would surely proceed to vent their ill humor on his poor head. "Oh! please let me go, Paul!" he whined, addressing himself to the one he recognized as the leader of the opposition; "I've got all I deserve, you see, and the worst is yet to come; for when my dad looks at this new suit I'm in for the most dreadful lickin' you ever heard about. Don't kick a feller when he's down, will you, Paul? Please open that door again, an' let me scoot!" He knew what he was doing in addressing himself to Paul Morrison. Perhaps another, like William or Bobolink for instance, might think he deserved even more severe handling, to pay him for his share in the mean prank that had been nipped in the bud. But Paul had a reputation for being fair, and was also known not to allow such a thing as a desire for revenge to take root in his heart. When Paul surveyed the forlorn figure before him, with a thought as to what might await Bud at home, for he had a stern father, he agreed with the other that apparently he had been already well punished. So he stepped over to unfasten the door again. "I hope this will be a lesson to you, Bud," he remarked, while so doing. "Oh! it sure will," Bud responded, eagerly, "I'll know better than to crawl in a window, and let other fellers have the snap of waitin' till the door's swung open. I'll be mighty careful about that, after this, give you my word, Paul." And that was all Bud had learned from his experience. After this he would let Ted snatch his own chestnuts out of the fire. Small use trying to show such a chap the real significance of his wrong-doing. Paul did not try, but opened the basement door. William and Bobolink hastened to line up on either side. From the threatening manner in which they swung those terrible looking instruments of torture over their right shoulders, it seemed as though they wished to get in one last whack at the enemy before the incident was called closed. Bud saw these dread preparations with renewed terror. He had already experienced several painful connections with those padded clubs, and was not sighing to renew his acquaintance. "Please, Paul, call 'em off! Don't let 'em get a chance at me again! I'm all black an' blue now from tumbling around on the floor, with the fellers stampin' on me. Boys, have a little mercy, won't you, now?" William looked at Bobolink. Then they exchanged winks, for it had really never been their intention to turn loose upon Bud again. "Well," said Bobolink, "seeing that you've made up your mind to reform after this, p'raps we might let you off easy, Bud. But the next time you get caught, oh! but you're going to get it. Better quit that crowd, and try another tack. Ted and Ward have all the fun, and you fellows take the drubbings. Think it over, Bud!" It was not often Bobolink talked like this. It happened, however, that once upon a time he and Bud had been good friends. That was, of course, before they reached the parting of the ways, the latter choosing to throw in his fortunes with the Slavin crowd, because he thought they had the most fun. "I'm going to, Bobolink," responded the wretched fellow, a grain of thankfulness in his voice, "I'm beginning to get my eyes open. P'raps my dad'll make me promise never to go with Ted again." But Paul did not believe that Bud had reached the point of seeing the full evil of his ways. Had he done so he would never have made that remark about simply being tired of proving the scapegoat; and that the lesson he had learned would only make him wiser about acting as Ted's scout. So Bud hastened to leave the scene of his recent humiliation; and no sooner was he gone than Paul again secured the door against intrusion. "Are we going to get busy now?" asked William, as he fondly caressed the novel weapon with which he had recently harassed the would-be destroyers of the camp equipment, as though loth to lay it down for a broom. "Wait a bit," remarked Paul; "for unless I'm mistaken there's another Tiger loose in the den of the Fox!" As if to emphasize the truth of his words there came, just at that moment, a tremendous crash from the dark gymnasium near by. Groans, and angry words testified to the fact that Scissors Dempsey was having his troubles of his own in trying to navigate that abyss of gloom, seeking to find the door, and escape by that means. "Wow!" exclaimed William, once more tightening his grip on that war-club, while the light of battle glowed in his eyes; "I clean forgot that pilgrim in there. Oh! for one last good belt at a Slavin Tiger. Paul, get a lamp, won't you, and turn us loose in there. Oh my! oh me, what luck!" "I suppose he's just got to be chased out of the place; and the sooner we do it the better," Paul responded, advancing toward the connecting door. He knew just where to find the nearest lamp. It was close beside the door, and Paul had stamped its location in his mind. Accordingly, he struck a match and passed the portal. Jack was at his heels, trying to hold the impetuous William and the equally belligerent Bobolink in check; but unable to wholly do so. When the match was applied to the wall lamp it gave a dim light. The presence of electricity in the furnace room only made the contrast more positive. Still, those eager boys possessed sharp vision, and almost instantly both William and his fellow scout discovered a moving figure at the other side of the gymnasium crawling out from under a wilderness of blankets and tents that had fallen upon him. CHAPTER IX RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL If Paul could have had his own way just then he would have been in favor of allowing Scissors a chance to make his escape. But he had a pair of impetuous comrades along; and aroused by the excitement of the occasion neither William nor Bobolink thought of consulting his wishes. No sooner was the lamp lighted than they sprang forward toward the heaving heap of blankets and folded tents, where the alarmed intruder was trying to emerge from the avalanche he had brought down upon himself. Some of the good brethren of the congregation might have felt inclined to hold up their hands in dismay could they have looked in there just at that moment, and seen all the weird goings-on that were taking place. Still, an investigation would have proven that the scouts were not responsible for the scrimmage; since they had a perfect right to protect their possessions against attack. No sooner had Scissors managed to emerge from the great heap of camp things than he was set upon by a couple of energetic scouts. He dodged most of the blows, aimed with such good will, though a few landed, and forced groans from the unhappy recipient. To tell the truth, the expression of terror was so strong on the face of the caged Tiger that neither of his assailants could get much force in their strokes, so full of laughter had they become. Paul himself walked over to unlock the door, wishing to end the ridiculous and unequal performance as soon as possible. And in so doing he happened to leave that single lighted lamp unguarded for just a minute. It proved doubly unfortunate, though no one could have possibly foreseen the catastrophe which came upon them so suddenly. Scissors, in trying to avoid further punishment, had taken to running back and forth. He ducked whenever he believed one of those threatening clubs was about to descend upon his head, whirling to the right, and then to the left, almost wild at the prospect of being at the mercy of such seemingly savage enemies. He was too excited to understand that if he had only thrown up his hands, and called out that he surrendered not another blow would have fallen. Nor could he guess that the ferocious aspect of these assailants was but a mask assumed to hide the huge grins that struggled for mastery on their faces. In making a last desperate plunge to escape William the fugitive happened to collide with a pair of oars that stood up against the wall in what was believed to be a secure place. One thing followed another, just as a line of bricks standing on end will bow to the fall of the leading one. Scissors struck the oars and they in turn crashed against that single lighted lamp, knocking it from its cup! "Oh!" exclaimed William, pausing in sudden horror, as he saw the lamp go down. There was a crash, and a shriek from Scissors, who had tripped, and plunged headlong. Paul saw a blaze of light; and he knew that the lamp had broken, depositing its dangerous fluid all around. Kerosene in these days is not the same deadly explosive it used to be in other times; still, it will catch fire under certain conditions; and he saw that unless prompt measures were taken the church was doomed! "Be prepared!" That scout motto never had a better chance of being lived up to than just at that critical moment, when the oil from the broken lamp began to take fire in various places. Paul jumped like a flash toward the pile of blankets, and snatched up several in his hands. Nor was Jack an instant behind him, only he happened to seize upon a tent in the excitement of the moment, when there was certainly no time to change. Regardless of any injury to the articles they were wielding, both lads swung at the flames, and beat them furiously. Such prompt action was sure to meet with its reward, for it would have to be a pretty hot little conflagration that could stand against such energetic work. But Scissors was calling out, and beating frantically at his garments, which seemed to be afire in half a dozen places. It was then that William, who had just a brief time before been pursuing the imperiled lad with seeming vindictiveness, proved that there was little of venom in his heart. He had dropped his club at the very instant of the accident, and seeing what Paul and Jack were doing, had hurried over also to possess himself of a blanket. Instead of whipping this at the creeping flames which the others promised to take good care of, William turned his attention to the excited Scissors, who was losing in his fight against the hungry fire that had seized upon his oil-soaked garments. And right then and there did the lessons taught to these scouts come home to William. Not for nothing had he learned what to do in case of a sudden emergency, whether by water or fire. Over the head of Scissors he threw that blanket, and then seized the other in a bear-like hug. "Keep still!" William was calling, as he hung on grimly; "quit your kicking, you silly! It's all right, and no great damage done!" But as Scissors, being blinded by the blanket, could not see that Paul and his chum had beaten the fire out, and in imagination he felt it still eating into his tender skin, he continued to struggle and try to shout, although his voice sounded very faint in the compress. Paul found another lamp as soon as darkness had fallen on the gymnasium, and with trembling hands managed to light it. Then the four friends looked at each other, and tried to smile; but it was a poor job. Their faces were as white as parchment, and yet each one at that moment was probably uttering sincere thanks deep down in his heart that the accident had been no worse. William had removed the blanket from around Scissors by this time, and the prisoner was sitting down on the floor, examining several sore spots on his hands and legs, where the fire had touched the cuticle. "Say, did you ever see such a hot time?" gasped Bobolink, presently, as he recovered his lost breath in part; for he had been kicking at the fire just as vigorously as the others slapped at it with the blanket or tent. Paul shook his head. He could hardly realize what a fearfully narrow escape the fine old church had had. A very little delay in attacking the flames would have allowed them to get such headway that no effort on their part could have won out. And perhaps that would have dealt a crushing blow to the Boy Scouts in Stanhope. "Is it going to look bad?" asked William, possibly with something of this idea surging through his head just then. "That's what I'm anxious about. Who'd ever dream that that lamp could be knocked down and broken. Good it wasn't gasoline, or nothing could have saved the building," and Paul got down on his hands and knees, the better to see. "Well, what d'ye make of it?" asked Jack, as the scout leader once more arose. "When we clean up around here there won't be much to show for it, except a singed blanket or two, and some marks on that tent. Boys, we ought to be mighty thankful it came out so well," replied Paul, soberly. In imagination he saw the old church, which was beloved by so many good people of Stanhope, a heap of ashes; and the mere thought sent a shiver through him. William pointed to Scissors, who was groaning as he sat there on the floor. All feeling of animosity was now driven from even the hearts of William and Bobolink. Indeed, it must have been sympathy that caused the former to bend down over the grunting lad. "Guess you're not burnt badly, Scissors," William said softly; "smarts some, of course, but rub the black off, an' it looks only a little red. Here, Paul, ain't we got something in our medicine chest good for burns? Seems to me you carried that, and used it more'n once when a fellow got too near the camp-fire." "Why, to be sure we have, and I'll get it right away," declared Paul, as he started a search for the article in question. Such was the confusion following the upsetting of the heap of material that it proved a serious task finding the medicine chest, which, up to now had contained all their simple remedies. Paul had arranged additions, with which he expected to complete the stock in preparation for their big tour. Seeing what was in progress both Jack and Bobolink lent their assistance; and the dismal groans of Scissors kept urging them on to greater exertions. "Here it is!" called Jack, presently, as he overturned some of the blankets once more, and fished out the little case. "Hurrah! you're all to the good, Jack!" declared Bobolink, with his customary vigor of speech. Paul quickly opened the case, and produced a little box containing a cooling salve his father had given him. It acted in a magical manner with ordinary burns, and the boys had particularly requested that he be sure and bring another supply for use on the tour; since burns were apt to be the portion of those who had much to do with preparing the food cooked over a camp-fire. Paul set to work rubbing some of the salve upon every spot Scissors indicated as needing attention. He found a wonderfully large collection, for just then it probably seemed good policy for Scissors to act as though seriously injured, lest the others take it into their heads to kick him out of the place. "I guess that ought to do, Scissors," said Paul, when he had almost used up the entire contents of the box on the other's arms and legs. "Feels some better, don't it?" asked Jack, anxiously, for once upon a time he and the caged Tiger had been next-door neighbors, and were accustomed to going together. "Y--es, some; but I reckon I'll be pretty sore to-morrow, boys. Aint you going to turn me loose now?" asked Scissors, looking up out of the corner of his eye at Paul. Then as though he feared he saw something hostile in the manner of the other, he commenced grunting dismally again, and writhing as if in pain. "Why, of course you can go, Scissors," observed Paul, "I'm sure you've got your medicine more than Bud did his. If you can walk, come right along to the door. I was opening it when you banged into those oars, and upset the lamp. Here you are; good-night, Scissors!" The boy limped grievously as he headed for the door. He kept one eye on William, and Paul really believed that if the Carberry Twin had made a movement as though about to pick up that padded instrument of torture again the apparently lame Tiger would have developed a surprising burst of speed, and fairly shot out of that exit. So they saw him go stumbling up the few steps that led to the level. Then Paul once more shut and secured the door. The four chums looked at each other, but no one laughed. Though there had been plenty of humor about the affair, on their side, still that closing scene in the little drama had sent a thrill of horror through them. They realized that, after all, they had been close to a catastrophe. "First of all let's get this room straightened up, boys," said Paul, as he started folding some of the disarranged blankets. Four pairs of hands make light work, and after a little there was a new heap of the camp material, on another section of the floor. After that they endeavored to remove all traces of the brief fire, and in this they were fortunate, for having completed their labors it would be difficult to detect any signs of that sudden though terrifying flash in the pan. "Now for the ashpit, fellows," sang out William, finally. "Me to swing the broom, after some water has been sprinkled. We're going to get there yet, all right; but oh! my, what a time it's been! Will I ever forget it?" "This is what I'd call heaping coals of fire on the heads of your enemies!" ventured Bobolink; as he, too, hunted for a broom in the furnace room, and prepared to assist in the work of cleaning up the mess. Paul sprinkled first, while Jack started to place those cans which had not been upset, in a row. For a short time there was an industrious quartette engaged in the labor of reconstruction. When Paul finally gave the signal to knock off work the furnace room really looked much better than old Peter was in the habit of keeping it. After that the boys sought the faucet where running water could be had; soap and towels were forthcoming from the stores, and they cleaned themselves up. Then preparations were made, looking to an all-night vigil, during which by turns one of their number was expected to stand guard at two hour stretches; though none of them had the least fear that the enemy, routed so thoroughly, would return. CHAPTER X OFF ON THE LONG TOUR "Get up, you lazybones!" It seemed to Paul that he had just managed to drop into his first real sleep of the night when he heard William say this. The unusual experience of hearing the loud strokes of the big clock up in the steeple above, had done much to keep him wakeful, even when it was not his time to be on guard. He immediately sat up, to find the other fellows yawning, and stretching, as if they, too, had been dragged back from dreamland by William's turning-out call. "Oh! rats, it sure can't be five o'clock yet!" grumbled Bobolink, showing signs of rolling over again, and taking another spell of sleep. "Ain't it?" remarked the sentry, indignantly; "Well, you just take a look up at that window, and you'll see the sun, all right. Besides, the clock tried to get in the reveille, though I tell you it was mighty hard work, with the lot of you snoring to beat the band. Tell 'em to crawl out, Paul. We've got heaps to do this morning, all right." "Say, is this the day we start on that long hike?" demanded Bobolink, with a dismal groan; "oh! my, but I feel punk. Who's been kicking me when I was asleep? I'm sore all over, and I guess you'll have to leave me behind, Paul, or else fix up that stock wagon into a sort of ambulance." "Oh! slush!" exclaimed William, indignantly, "wouldn't that be a nice cinch for you, now, to be reclining at your ease among the tents and blankets, while the rest of us tramped and sweated along the trail? I see you doing it, in my mind's eye." "Jump up and stretch, Bobolink. You've only got a few kinks in your muscles," remarked Jack, who was already working his arms like flails. "I suppose I'll just have to, even if it kills me. Oh! what a shooting pain in that left leg. What ails me, anyhow?" grumbled the afflicted one. "I know," quoth William, readily enough. "You put too much steam into those kicks last night. Didn't I hear Ted give a yelp every time you got near him; and there were others. Everything in moderation, my boy. You're just paying the price now on your speed. Tone down like I do, and you won't have such aches the next day." By degrees Bobolink managed to get rid of his sore feeling, which may have come, after all, from an unaccustomed bed on the floor. Despite the blankets which he had tucked under him, at some time during the night he possibly rolled out of his snug nest, and the hard boards left an impression. In a short time the gymnasium was made to look orderly. Paul did not wish those kind friends who had been so good to the scouts to find any reason for regretting their courtesy and benevolence. Then, after all were out, he locked the door, before making for his own home, in order to finish his preparations, and secure a good breakfast. Already Stanhope was all astir. Boys who usually slept until the call for breakfast disturbed their happy dreams, were up and doing. Indeed, many of them had, if the truth were known, stolen out of bed at various times before dawn, anxious not to oversleep. For this was to be one of the greatest days the younger generation of Stanhope had ever known. The long roll of Bluff Shipley's drum could be heard at intervals, and how their pulses thrilled at the sound, knowing that it was meant for them alone! Not since away back in '61, when little Stanhope, then a village, mustered a company to send to the front to serve their country, had such intense excitement abounded. Who could sleep when in some score of homes the hope of the household was rushing up and down stairs, gathering his possessions, buckling on his knapsack half a dozen times, and showing all the symptoms of a soldier going to the wars? Every girl in town was on the street, many of them to wave farewell to brother or friend. And besides, there were the envious ones connected with the "Outcast Troop," as Ted and Ward called their fragment, because they had been unable to obtain a charter from the National Council, being backward in many of the requirements insisted on. These fellows had been delayed in making their start, and were planning to slip out of town some time later in the day. They possibly wanted to make sure that the scouts were actually headed in the direction of Rattlesnake Mountain; for not a few among them secretly doubted whether Paul and his comrades would have the nerve to venture into that wild country. And now, by ones and twos, the young khaki-garbed warriors began to gather in the vicinity of the church. Each carried a full knapsack, and all were supplied with a stout, mountain staff, which would assist their movements later in the day, after the muscles of their legs began to grow weary. Paul was amused at the stuffy appearance of those same knapsacks. Evidently some of the boys' fond mothers or older sisters entertained a healthy fear that their darling might fare badly at meal time; and they had been cooking doughnuts, as well as various other delicacies beloved of youth, to be crammed into the confined space of the shoulder haversack. But that was to be looked for, since this was their first real hike. After one experience every fellow might be expected to know better, and scoff at the idea of a true scout going hungry as long as camp stores abounded, and a fire could be kindled. With each passing minute the tumult grew apace. Fathers and mothers gathered to witness the triumphal passing of the troop, in which their own boy must of course appear to be the one particular star. By eight o'clock several hundred people had congregated near the old church. For one morning, business in Stanhope was forgotten or stood still, for neither clerks nor proprietors seemed to evince any desire to show up. Those boys who did not belong to the troop pretended to scoff at the idea of undertaking such a wearisome march; but this was pretty much make-believe. Deep down in their hearts they were bitterly envious of the good fortune that had befallen their comrades; for few boys there are but who yearn to get out _somewhere_, once in a while, and meet with some sort of adventure. Bluff was kept busy displaying his skill as a drummer. He always had a group of admirers of both sexes around him. And Bluff showed his wisdom by saying never a word. Silence with him was golden, because, as he himself was wont to say, he "never opened his mouth, but what he put his foot in it." And there was Bobolink gripping that shiny bugle nervously, and keeping one eye on the scout leader the while. When Paul gave the signal he would be primed for his part in the proceedings. Finally, as far as a careful count went, it seemed as though all who meant to start out on the long tour had arrived. Paul made a gesture to the official bugler, and immediately Bobolink raised his instrument to his lips. The roll of the drum had become familiar music to those listening hundreds; but when the clear notes of the bugle floated through the morning air there was an instantaneous raising of hats, and hardly had the assembly call died away than a stupendous cheer seemed to make the very church tremble. "Fall in! fall in, fellows!" Every boy knew his place. At the head of the double line stood the flag bearer, Wallace Carberry carrying the glorious Stars and Stripes, while further back, Tom Betts waved the beautiful prize banner which Stanhope Troop had fairly won in the preceding Autumn, when competing with the other troops of the county. Then came Bluff with his busy drum, and Bobolink holding his bugle ready to give the signal for the start. After that the scouts came, two and two, each in his appointed place, and the leaders of the second and third patrols heading their commands. Paul was of course compelled to act in the place of Mr. Gordon, so that temporarily Jack served in Paul's stead with the Red Fox Patrol. Amid great cheering and waving of hats and handkerchiefs, the troop finally put their best foot forward as one man, and headed away up the road that would, after many miles of weary marching, take them to their distant goal. At the rear came the wagon, upon which were piled the tents, blankets, and provisions for the two weeks' stay in camp. When the worried parents of the boys saw the large amount of eatables they began to lose their fears about hunger attacking the little troop. But then, a score of healthy lads can make way with an astonishing amount of food in that time; yet Paul had also counted on securing a supply from some neighboring farmers to help out the regular rations. To the inspiring music of drum and bugle they marched away from Stanhope. A bend in the road hid their homes from view, and only the steeple of the church could be seen. Perhaps more than one boy felt a queer sensation in his throat as he realized now what it meant to leave home, tramp out into the wilderness. But if this were so they made no sign. The wistful look several cast behind changed into one of manly determination, as they kept pace with their comrades, and faced the future with new hopes. Paul soon moderated the pace. He was wise enough to know that at this rate some of the boys would early complain of being tired or footsore, since they were hardly yet in condition to "do stunts" in the way of travel. Two miles out of town they came to a cold spring up among the rocks at which many wishful eyes were turned, so the acting scoutmaster gave the order to halt, and break ranks. "We'll stop here for half an hour, and get refreshed," he said, as they clustered around him; "because, now that we've left our base of supplies and cut loose from all our homes we must go carefully. The chain is only as strong as the weakest link, you know, fellows. And several of our number are not used to long tramps." After drinking their fill of the cool and refreshing water the scouts lounged around, each taking a favorite attitude while indulging in animated discussions concerning what might await them far to the north. It was while the troop was taking things in this easy manner that Jud Elderkin suddenly jumped to his feet. "Look what's coming, fellows!" he exclaimed, and everybody of course sprang up. CHAPTER XI THE COMING OF THE CIRCUS CARAVAN "Hey!" cried Bobolink, as he rubbed his eyes, "wake me up, somebody, won't you? I've got the nightmare, sure; I'm seein' things I hadn't ought to." "Gee whiz! it's sure an elephant, fellows!" ejaculated Joe Clausin. "And what's that coming along behind the same? Get on to his curves, would you, boys? We're the gay defenders of Lucknow, for as sure as you live the camels are coming, heigho, heigho!" sang William, striking an attitude. "It's the circus that was billed to show in Stanhope this very day," declared Jack, with sudden conviction. "That's what it is!" echoed Jud, with a grin; "heard they gave a turn over at Warren last night. Say, I bet they've been on the tramp the rest of the night, and the way that old elephant moves along proves it." "They do look tired for a fact," admitted Paul; "I wonder if our horse will get gay when the animals pass so close. Most horses are just crazy with fear when they smell a tiger or a lion near by." "Huh! I'd just like to see some spirit in old Dobbin," laughed Philip Towns. "He's a plugger at best, and I expect we'll have to help him up many a hill with that big load. There come the people of the show, and three cages of beasts. My! but don't they all look like they'd been drawn through a knot-hole, though?" The night march had indeed fagged both beasts and human performers. Horses walked with downcast heads, and some of the men limped painfully. Altogether it was not a sight to arouse much enthusiasm in the heart of a boy, accustomed to seeing the outside glitter of a circus, with prancing steeds, gay colors, music, and the humorous antics of the clown. Paul pushed to the front just then. "I've got something to propose, fellows," he said; and the announcement was as usual sufficient to rivet the attention of all his comrades; for when Paul made a suggestion they knew that as a rule it was worth listening to. "Hear! hear!" said several, nudging each other secretly, as they crowded around. "I can see that there are a large number among us that so far to-day have not found a chance to do something to help another. Yes, I'm in the same boat myself, for you see my badge is turned upside-down. How many are there who would like to wipe out that debt, and clean the slate for the day?" Paul held up his hand as he spoke. Immediately every fellow followed suit, even those who had been fortunate enough to ease their conscience so early in the day feeling perfectly willing to repeat the obligation. As I have said before, it is a rule with most scouts to do some little thing of a helpful nature every day. Sometimes this takes the form of assisting a poor widow with her firewood, running an errand for a mother, helping a child across the street where horses act as a source of danger--there are a thousand ways in which a boy can prove his right to the name of a true scout, if he only keeps his eyes about him, and the desire to be useful urges him on. But of course some lads are always blind, and they never make good scouts. "Now you see how high up this fine spring is, fellows," Paul went on; "and then perhaps they don't even know about it, because they are strangers here. The horses can't get up here any more than old Dobbin could. You carried two buckets of water down to him, and he thanked you when he drank it. See the point, fellows?" "It's great, and we'll do it!" declared several at once. "Once we put out a fire; and now we can quench a big thirst!" shrilled William. "Huh! if you expect to fill up that camel and elephant I see our finish. Why, my stars! they never could get enough!" lamented Bobolink. "But do you like the idea, fellows? Every one agreeable say yes!" persisted Paul. A thunderous response followed, during which Bluff managed to get in a few bangs at his drum, and Bobolink tooted his bugle shrilly. Immediately there were signs of animation about the caravan. Heads of women performers began to protrude from a couple of dingy-covered wagons, and every eye was turned up to the rocky hillside where the flags fluttered in the morning air. "Come on then, let's get down to the road, boys," remarked Paul, starting to lead the way. "Bring on your buckets," said William, gayly, "we're the boys when it comes to running a line of pails. Hey! you, mister with the big elephant, don't you want a drink of the coldest spring water on earth? We've got it up yonder, and it won't cost any of you a cent either." The man seated on the neck of the lumbering elephant brought the animal to a halt. Then he gave some sort of a signal that the animal understood, for immediately he sank on his knees, and allowed the keeper to slide down from his perch, making stepping places of tusks and uplifted trunk. "Fine!" cried the interested William; "a private performance for the benefit of Stanhope Troop of the Boy Scouts of America. Where can I get a bucket handy, mister? I'm just dying to see that big beast scoop up the water in his trunk." By this time the camel had arrived, and presently some vehicles came to a stop close by, while men began to gather around. Apparently every member of the circus company must be exceedingly thirsty, for as soon as it was known that a spring lay among the rough rocks where the flags floated, a number started climbing up, bearing all sorts of drinking cups. "How about your animals, sir?" asked Paul. "You see we're looking for a chance to do a good turn to somebody or other, and if you supplied us with buckets we'd be glad to water your stock for you." The big bearded man who seemed to be the proprietor of the traveling show looked at the speaker as though he could hardly believe his ears. No doubt his experience with boys had been along quite a different line. He evidently fancied that they were only made to prove a thorn in the flesh of every circus owner, stealing under the canvas of the big round-top, annoying the animals, and throwing decayed vegetables at the clown when he was trying his best to amuse the audience. "Buckets?" he exclaimed, presently, "oh! yes, we've got lots handy; and the animals are certain peeved with thirst. Boys, I'm going to snap that offer up, because you see, my canvasmen are pretty nigh done up, having so little sleep. Here you are; just take your pick, and thank you!" Every boy made haste to comply, so long as the supply of buckets held out; and those who failed to secure one hung on the tracks of another more lucky, waiting to claim it for the second filling. The scene became an animated one indeed, with those khaki-clad lads climbing up the hill, empty buckets in hand; and carefully lowering themselves again when the wooden receptacles had been filled with the clear and cold liquid. Of course the official photographer had to snap off several views of the busy scene, and every scout who had carried his camera along followed suit. It was a "dandy" picture, as William declared, and would hardly be equalled during the entire course of their tour. "Say, just fancy that old elephant and that camel taken in connection with us scouts!" gurgled Bobolink, as he turned his camera loose, and once more looked for a chance to seize some fellow's bucket. "Not to mention the cages of _ferocious_ wild beasts yonder, and the ladies of the circus taking cups of water right from our hands as though they were really tamed. It's going to be the biggest card we ever met up with," and William thumped himself proudly on the chest as he spoke. But Paul was thinking of other things. That picture would be mute evidence of the new spirit that had taken lodgment in the breasts of those Stanhope lads, connected with the scout movement. There they would appear, as busy as beavers, doing a real good turn in quenching the thirst of all those poor animals that had been traveling over the dusty road since the show closed in the other town. It would need no explanation, for Paul believed any one could read between the lines, and understand. Their half hour was lengthened to a full one, owing to this unexpected delay. When the caravan finally meandered along the road, and the members of the circus gave a cheer for the boys on the hillside, Paul believed that the additional time had been well spent. And not one single badge now remained upside-down, since every fellow felt that he had won the right to wear it in its proper position. "Give them three cheers!" he called, as the caravan drew near the bend in the road that would shut it from view. There was a lusty response from more than a score of healthy lungs, while both drum and bugle added to the racket. Presently, the dust hanging like a cloud at the turn was the only sign left of the passing of the circus. But the memory of the humane deed they had done would remain with the boys a long time. Once again they were on the move. Dobbin had managed to survive the near presence of those unfamiliar animals, and seemed to put more vigor than formerly into his work. Perhaps he was anxious to place as much distance as possible between his own person and the terrifying beasts of the jungle. When noon arrived the young scouts found themselves about five miles away from town. This was really further than a number of the lads had ever been in this direction. Still, there had been no rush, and Paul knew that his command must be in pretty good shape thus far. Most of them appeared to be merry enough, and joked as they walked. William especially seemed light hearted; and since nothing like order was maintained during the steady tramp, he enlivened the way with his songs and squibs. It was different with Paul. Pretty much all the responsibility weighed upon his young shoulders, since Mr. Gordon trusted to him to carry the troop to the place selected for the camp, wherever that might be. He had scores of things to think of, and must always be on the alert to keep his finger on the pulse of the entire score of lads. When they made their noon halt they had reached another spring known to Paul, though some little distance away from the road. Breaking ranks, they followed the directions of their leader and made for the water, each boy eager to get at the contents of his knapsack, wherein loving hands had so carefully stowed such dainties as the son of the house was known to favor. "Don't we have a fire, and some cooked grub, Paul?" demanded William, eagerly, as he hovered about the wagon, ready to pounce upon the kettles and pans that had been brought along to serve as cooking receptacles. "Not here," replied the leader, smiling at the look of disappointment visible on William's face, which he could twist about in the most comical way ever seen outside of a clown's work in the circus. "To-night we'll make our first regular camp, you know, and that will be time enough to break in." "Oh! I'm wise now to the idea. You want the boys to get rid of a lot of the sweet stuff they've loaded in their grips. And I reckon you're just about right. The sooner they get down to plain grub, the better. Cakes and such are good enough at home, but give me the bacon, the flapjacks, the hominy, the fried fish and camp fare when I'm in the woods." William talked big, but Paul happened to know that pretty much all his information with regard to what should be done during an outing of this sort had been gleaned from books, though he could cook quite well. His brother Wallace was just the opposite, and knew from actual experience what a camper should, and should not, do. A rest of an hour was taken, during which time the scouts lightened their bulging knapsacks considerably. Indeed, Paul had high hopes that by the time another day had passed the supply of crullers and similar dainties would have vanished completely. During the afternoon they did not try to hurry. There were several reasons for this. Already a number of the boys began to complain of sore feet, and were noticed limping, although Paul had tried to make sure that each fellow started out with the right kind of shoes for tramping. It kept him busy giving advice, and showing the wounded fellows just how to alleviate their suffering. Andy Flinn finally took his shoes off, and trudged along in his bare feet. But then, Andy had known many a time in his past when he did not own a pair of shoes, and his soles were calloused to the point where small stones made no impression. It was about four o'clock, and there had begun to arise a complaint of weariness along the whole line, when Paul edged up to William. He had been over this part of the road on his wheel lately, just to get an idea as to the lay of the land. Hence he knew that the ideal place for the first camp was close by, and presently the cheery sound of the bugle electrified the entire detachment. CHAPTER XII A CAMP BY THE ROADSIDE "Let me have a tent, will you, somebody?" cried Jud Elderkin. "Me for the cooking outfit!" sang out Bobolink, though his knowledge of affairs connected with the preparing of food was extremely limited, owing to lack of experience. But then Bobolink, as well as all the rest of the troop, would be considerably wiser before they slept again under a roof. Many hands made light work, and the contents of the supply wagon were soon distributed to the several patrols. There were two tents for each, four fellows sleeping under each canvas shelter. Paul was busy from the minute the procession turned into the woods bordering the road. He had to see that the right situations were selected for putting up the tents, in case a sudden downpour of rain came upon them. A mistake in this particular might result in having a pond around the sleepers, and add a soaking to their blankets and clothes. But Paul had figured on this during the previous visit made here. He had even marked off the position he wished every tent to occupy, and this made it easier. Many of the scouts were really proficient in erecting the canvas shelters, and in a very brief time the scene began to present quite a martial appearance, such as half a dozen tents in a bunch must always make. Each had a waterproof fly over the whole, which was calculated to shed rain _if let alone_. Besides there were a couple of other open covers put up, which would be useful in case of rain, one for storing things, the other as a mess tent, where meals could be partaken of in comfort, despite the weather. After that three fires were started, one for each patrol. These were not of the big, roaring kind that usually serve campers as their means of cooking. Later on they expected to have one such, around which to gather, and tell yarns, and sing their school songs; but the cooking fires must be built along entirely different lines. A hole was dug in the ground, with a frontage toward the wind. When this was pronounced deep enough a fire was carefully kindled in it, and fed with small stuff until it could take stronger food. So by degrees the depression became filled with red cinders, sending off a tremendous heat, yet not showing more than fifty feet away. An enemy might pass it by twice that distance, without discovering it was there. Besides, one could cook over such a fire with comfort, and not scorching both face and hands in the effort. Paul had learned the trick from an Indian with whom he once camped; and ever since that time he had never made a big, roaring blaze when he wanted to cook. That was only one of dozens of useful things those Stanhope boys would pick up while on this wonderful hike into the wilderness. Wallace Carberry had a lot of information packed away in that big head of his, and there would be plenty of occasions when he could help Paul out in accomplishing things in the proper way. So eager were the boys to taste their first meal under canvas that they could hardly be held in check. "Why," said Paul, laughing when some of them pleaded with him, and declared they were bordering on a state of actual starvation; "if we ate now, a lot of you would be hungry again before we turned in. I figure on three square meals a day; but four would upset all my calculations. Half an hour more, boys. Suppose you get a few pictures of this first camp? They'll be worth while." In this fashion did he manage to keep them from dissatisfaction. At last he gave the word that allowed the various cooks to set to work. There was no lack of helpers, for every fellow hung around, watching the peeling of the potatoes with hungry eyes; but when a delicious aroma began to arise from the first frying pan set over the hot fire, some of them backed away, unable to stand it longer. William, as the champion flapjack tosser of the entire troop, was of course in big demand at the fire of his patrol. He had brought along a white cook's cap which he insisted on donning as he hovered over his outdoor range, and gave his orders to willing subordinates. That meal was one never to be forgotten by any of the boys. To a number it proved the very first they had ever eaten under similar conditions; and with ravenous appetites, whetted by the long tramp, and the cool air that came with evening, it seemed as though they could devour the entire mess alone. But their eyes proved larger than their capacities, for there was plenty for all, and no one complained of not being satisfied when the meal ended. Each patrol had a regularly-organized system whereby the work might be divided up, and every fellow get his share. Hence there could be no favors shown, and no chance for disputes. One of the leading rules was that duty came before play. Consequently the tin platters, cups, knives, forks and spoons, as well as what utensils had been used in preparing the dinner, were cleaned and laid away before Paul allowed the big fire to be started. Each patrol cook was allowed to have what he thought would best please those for whom he labored. Paul exercised only a general supervision over the whole matter, in order to make sure that there was no unnecessary waste. Consequently there would always be more or less rivalry between the three patrols, and much good natured "joshing" with regard to what they had to eat. Once that bonfire was started, the scene assumed a different aspect. The glow lighted up the encampment, and filled the Banner Boy Scouts with a feeling of pardonable pride, because each one felt that he had a personal ownership in the camp under the wide spreading oak. After a time they grew merry. William joked, another told a story that sent them into fits of laughter, and then songs were sung. "How different they sound out here in the woods!" declared Wallace, as the last notes of a favorite air died away. He was possibly the most satisfied member of the troop, for his love of the open air life had always been profound. "Say, fellows, how about settling down to the prosy life after this gay old jaunt; tell me about that?" demanded William. There was a storm of disapproval. "Don't make us feel bad, old fellow!" pleaded one. "Me for the gay life of a gypsy!" declared another. "Why, I'll have to run away, and join that circus, I just guess!" laughed a third. But Paul only smiled. He knew a change would come over the spirit of their dreams presently. They were now tasting the joys of outdoor life. Everything was delightful around them. The air was fine, the sky filled with stars, plenty of good food near at hand, and the first night on the road yet to be endured. Wait until the rain came down in buckets, drenching them to the skin; see what sort of enthusiasm would show up when perhaps their supply of food gave out, and they were hard put to get enough to appease their savage appetites; given a week away from the loved ones at home, and how many of these bold spirits would still be able to declare with all their hearts that the life in the open was the real thing? "Of course we put a guard out to-night, Paul?" asked Jack, as he crept close up to where his chum sat on a blanket, watching the fun going on around the fire. "That is a sure thing. We must never forget that, while a peace organization, we wear uniforms, and are acting under military rules. Besides, perhaps it wouldn't be just right for me to say this to the rest, but I can whisper it to you, Jack--somehow I seem to have a dim suspicion that we may entertain visitors before morning." Jack started and looked at his chum anxiously. "Now you sure can't think any of those circus canvasmen would take the trouble to follow us?" he muttered, shaking his head in bewilderment; "because they know mighty well we haven't got a thing they'd want, outside of our grub. Oh! that makes me think of something. I begin to smell a rat now, Paul. You mean Ted and his crowd." Paul nodded in response, and smiled mysteriously. "Any reason for thinking that?" Jack went on, "or are you just saying it on general principles, like?" "I'll tell you," replied Paul, readily enough; "but please say nothing to the boys. It may be I'm too suspicious, you see, and I wouldn't like to be called a false alarm. But just think how particular that bunch was to stay back until we had left town. They claimed they weren't ready; but I chance to know that was all a fake." "You mean so they might follow, and give us all the trouble they could?" asked Jack, indignantly. "Just so," Paul went on, in a low voice. "Another thing; they expected to make use of their wheels in coming up here. Ted laughed at the idea of having a tent. True woodsmen, he claimed, never had any need of such a thing, being able to make a good shelter that would shed rain out of leaves and branches." "But they said they didn't expect to leave until afternoon. That would give us a long lead, Paul," Jack ventured. "Shucks! what would nine miles be to fellows on wheels? They could just eat up that distance, and not half try," answered his chum. "But somebody said they meant to take the other road that winds around so, and joins this one ten miles further on. Do you believe that, Paul?" "I just think that was said to pull the wool over our eyes. Those chaps have started out with the one idea of bothering us all they can," answered the scout leader. "Now look here; what's the use of beating about the bush like that, Paul? You've got some reason for being so dead sure. You've seen something, haven't you?" and Jack pressed still closer to the other as he waited for a reply. "Well, yes, I have," came the low response. "Please tell me what you saw then!" asked Jack, almost holding his breath in suspense. "Just before dark a boy on a wheel came around the bend, and then, seeing our tents, dropped off to hide in the brush along the side of the road," replied Paul. CHAPTER XIII WHEN THE MOON WENT DOWN "Did you know who it was, Paul?" asked Jack, after making sure none of the others were noticing that he and the leader of the troop had engaged in such a serious conversation. "It was getting dusk, and I couldn't see very well on account of the trees, you know; but something about the way he ducked made me think it was Ward Kenwood." "Well," chuckled Jack, "you've seen him duck often enough to know the signs. Suppose it was Ward, then the rest of the bunch must have been only a little way behind. He's got a motorcycle, you know, and would be apt to pace them. But what became of him then?" "I don't know," replied the patrol leader, rising. "Perhaps he left his machine in the bushes, and crept away to warn the rest before they exposed themselves. I'm going to find out if my eyes deceive me. Want to go with me, Jack?" "Count me in. Shall I get a lantern; and do you want any more along?" asked his chum, preparing to get up from the ground. "Two ought to be enough. Yes, bring a glim along; we may need it, for that moon isn't very bright to-night, and the trees make considerable shadow." Speaking in this fashion Paul left his position, and sauntered away. Possibly a few of the jolly company noticed his action, but took it for granted that he was only intending to make the rounds, and see that the sentries were on post; for they had already stationed a couple of scouts to serve as guardians of the camp. Paul walked over to where Dobbin was munching the tender grass, being secured against straying by a long rope. A minute later Jack joined him, carrying a lantern. Together they walked to the road not far away, and turned back over the ground they had covered late in the afternoon. "There's the bend," whispered Jack presently. "I see it," replied his comrade; "and it must have been somewhere close to this spot I saw that wheel appear, and then vanish so suddenly." "Which side of the road did he dive into?" queried Jack. "On our left. We'll look there first, anyhow, though if we find no signs I'll turn the other way, for I might have been mistaken. Watch sharp, now, Jack." The light of the lantern soon showed them what Paul had expected to find. The plain print of a pneumatic rubber tire was seen, turning abruptly off the road, and running into the scrub alongside. "Here, what do you make of that?" he asked, a tinge of triumph in his voice. "The mark of tires as sure as anything," replied Jack, bending down the better to examine the imprint. "From the way they show up you can see it was no ordinary bicycle that made the trail, but something heavier. Yes, it was Ward on his motorcycle. But you didn't hear the popping of the machine, did you?" "For a good reason," returned Paul, immediately. "You see the road descends for some distance, and he had just got over a long coast when he turned this bend. The engine was shut off." "But the machine isn't here now?" continued Jack. "Of course not," Paul admitted. "But any one with half an eye can see where he rolled it along here back of the brush, returning to where he came from. If we followed it a little way, we'd be sure to find that he hurried back up the road, pushing his machine, and in time stopped the rest of the bunch as they came along." "Well, that proves one thing then; they know where we are in camp," observed Jack, with a serious expression on his face; for he understood Ted Slavin's tactics of old, and could easily guess what might follow. "It proves more than one thing to me," declared Paul. "If they didn't mean to badger us in some way why should Ward hurry back to tell the rest, and keep them from showing up here?" "Then we'll have to get ready for an attack. Do you think they would dare stone the camp, and try to smash our tents?" and Jack gritted his teeth at the bare idea. "Would you put it past them?" Paul asked; "haven't they proved themselves ready to do any sort of mean trick in the past? All we can do is to keep constantly ready, and live up to our motto." "But suppose they do jump in on us; must we turn the other cheek, and get it on both sides?" demanded Jack, with whom this was always a disputed point. "Not by any means," declared his chum, positively. "Boys may go a certain distance in forgiving an enemy who is sorry, and asks to be let off; but they never will stand for milk and water stuff like that, and you know it, Jack. We seek no quarrel, and will go as far as the next one to avoid it; but," and Paul's face took on a look of grim determination while he was speaking, "if they push us too far, why we must just sail in and lick the whole bunch. Sometimes peace can only be had after fighting for it." "Glad to hear you say so. Shall we go back to the camp now, Paul?" asked his chum. "Might as well, I reckon," came the answer; "because we have no idea of following this trail back to where that crowd has camped. But I'm glad I happened to glimpse that fellow as he came around the bend. It gives us fair warning, and if we're caught napping, why we deserve to get the worst of the argument, that's all." "Huh! I'm glad we brought our staves along then," observed Jack. They turned to retrace their steps. Paul half fancied he had seen a flitting figure among the trees not far away; but the light was so uncertain, he could not say positively that it had not been a passing shadow, cast by one of the boys near by, crossing in front of the big fire. If Ted and his followers were in truth hovering around, it would not be advisable for himself and Jack to wander any further away, lest they be set upon, overpowered by superior numbers, and kidnapped. That would be a sad beginning to the great tour, which was almost certain to cause it to prove a failure from the start. Perhaps those shrewd plotters meant that it should be so; and were laying all their plans to that effect. Unconsciously, then, Paul quickened his footsteps, and cast more than one glance over his shoulder, not fancying being taken by surprise. Even his companion noticed his uneasiness, and commented on it. "Oh!" laughed Paul, "I imagine the idea must have come to me that they'd like nothing better than to nab both of us, and carry us off. With no head, the boys would soon get sick of staying up here, and scatter for home." "Well, then," declared Jack, positively, "they mustn't have a chance to get you, if we can help it. But here we are close to the camp. Do you mean to tell them now?" "It might be just as well," answered the leader, seriously; "every fellow would be put on his mettle then, knowing what was hanging over his head. And the sentries will hardly dare go to sleep on post. I know they realize the nature of such an offense; but many of these fellows are only tenderfeet when it comes to actual service; and what would you expect of boys anyway?" Jud was the first to see that something was wrong. As he jumped up and hurried over to confer, others took the alarm. Joking ceased, and a look of real concern might be noticed upon many a face that, but a brief time before, was wreathed in broad smiles. Then Paul explained. The moment he mentioned the name of Ted Slavin angry looks were exchanged between numbers of the scouts. They knew only too well, whenever that bully was around, there was apt to be trouble. "They're after our good grub, that's what!" suggested one, immediately. "But they don't get it, if we know it," declared another, positively. "We're for peace first, last and all the time, even if we have to fight for it," observed William, showing his white teeth with one of his famous grins. "That's the ticket. We seek no quarrel with anybody; but we're like Paul Jones' flag of the Revolution, with a rattlesnake coiled, and the motto, 'don't tread on me!' Isn't that it, fellows?" exclaimed Wallace Carberry. "Leave it to Paul here; he knows what to do," ventured Jack. "Sure," called out Bobolink, lustily; "whatever Paul says goes with us. Think up a good one, please, Paul, and teach those pirates a lesson they'll remember. They've been wanting a good licking this long time back." "After what we did to them only last night?" demanded Jack. "If your left leg was sore this morning, what d'ye think the other fellow's felt like?" "Thirty cents, I reckon," replied William, promptly. Paul soon had his plan of campaign practically arranged. As it was plainly the intention of the marauders to steal a portion or all of their supplies, these were taken from the wagon and stored in the duplicate mess tent. As this happened to be in the middle of the camp the chances of any hostile force being able to reach it without attracting attention from those on guard seemed too remote to cause anxiety. Other arrangements were made. Fires were laid ready for instant kindling, so that in case of a midnight alarm the woods might be quickly illuminated, and the enemy readily discovered. Paul went about certain preparations on his own account, nor did he take any one into his confidence, not even his chum. "When does the moon set to-night, Wallace?" he asked, knowing that the sober Carberry Twin always kept informed concerning such matters. "Eleven twenty-seven," came the immediate reply, just as if Wallace might be reading it from an almanac; and so he was, only it was figured out in his wise old brain, and not printed upon book paper. "Then if there's going to be any sort of row, believe me it will hold off until after that time," remarked the patrol leader, positively. "Yes, Ted is always copying after the Indians in those cheap library stories he buys for his nickels," Wallace made reply. "Those five-cent redmen never used to attack a camp until the moon had gone down. Generally it was just before peep of day, because men, and boys too, seem to sleep sounder then." "All right. You and I will be on deck to receive them. I've fixed it so our turn comes after eleven, for I knew the new moon would be gone by then. That gives us a chance to snatch some sleep beforehand," remarked Paul. Once more, just before taps was sounded, he made the rounds of the encampment in order to reassure himself that all was well. At that time nothing suspicious caught his eye. If any of their foes were hovering near by they knew well how to conceal themselves so as not to be discovered. Dobbin was still munching the sweet grass as far around him as his rope would permit. Like most old raw-boned horses he seemed never able to get enough to eat. Still, Paul thought that the expedition would be reduced to more or less straits if deprived of old Dobbins' services; and so he ordered that the animal be led up closer to the camp, being secured to a tree where he could be watched. With the warning call from the bugler there was an immediate dispersal of the merry group around the campfire. These boys had been drilled in the duties that devolve upon organized forces in the field. They understood that without discipline nothing could ever be accomplished; and all were ready to obey orders to the letter. There was a little good-natured scrambling when the rude beds were made up; but as soon as "taps" really sounded all activity ceased. No fellow was anxious to be the first to get bad marks registered against him in the record of the big hike. Those selected for doing duty during the first part of the night paced their posts, and exchanged low calls whenever they drew near one another. They were expected to keep a vigilant watch over the entire camp, and if the least suspicious thing caught their attention, a signal had been arranged whereby Paul would be notified, even though he were asleep at the time. Two hours passed without the slightest alarm. Then came the time to change sentries. Paul and Wallace were among the quartette that now came on duty; for the acting scoutmaster insisted on sharing the duties of his men. He refused to benefit by the circumstances that had conspired to thrust him into the exalted position usually filled by Mr. Gordon. Just as Wallace had predicted, the moon faded out of sight before half-past eleven came around. After that it was certainly dark, and perhaps it seemed more so on account of the contrast. Believing that if any peril hung over them, now was the time for it to make itself known, Paul redoubled his vigilance as he kept back in the shadows among the trees and eagerly watched in the direction of the camp. For half an hour nothing happened. He heard the customary sounds in the woods, with which he was so familiar, and which he so dearly loved. Then, while he was gazing at the dying camp fire he suddenly made a discovery that gave him quite a start. Some moving object caught his eye, not upon the ground as might have been expected, but up in the branches of a wide-spreading oak tree. CHAPTER XIV THE CHASE Paul looked again, and more closely. The light from the fire was becoming fickle. Once in a while the flame would start up, and give quite some little illumination. Then dying down lower than ever, it allowed a condition of half darkness to prevail. Of course it had been during one of these former periods that Paul made his startling discovery; and he waited in considerable suspense until the flame took a notion to feed upon another little stock of tinder. Could it really be a bear up there in that big oak, the branches of which reached out, and shook hands with those of other trees? Paul chuckled at the idea; it was so absurd. Save for an occasional traveling Italian with a trained bear, no such animal had been known to exist in all this section for many years. A bobcat then? That was very nearly as impossible. Still, the hasty glimpse he had secured told him that it was at least larger than a raccoon or a 'possum, animals frequently seen in the vicinity of Stanhope. Well, what was to hinder a _boy_ from coming into competition with other things, when an explanation of the mystery was sought? Some boys can climb like monkeys; and he knew of several who would think little or nothing of making their way from one tree to another, when the great limbs interlocked. There, the flame again began to show up, and dispell the gloom. Eagerly did Paul make use of his eyes; nor was he disappointed this time. There _was_ a swinging object dangling from the limb on which he had fastened his gaze. Even though the light proved so deceptive Paul knew that he was looking at a hanging boy, caught in the act of changing his location by the sudden return of the light, and meaning to remain still in the hope of escaping discovery. Were there others also in the oak? Could it be that the entire Slavin crowd had managed to elude their vigilance, and was now hovering over the camp, ready to carry out some dark plot? Paul did not believe this possible. Only an expert climber might succeed in accomplishing such a clever feat. He considered a minute, and then felt certain that he could give a guess concerning the identity of the one aloft. Among the partisans of Ted was a fellow named Eggleston, who was usually known among his fellows as "Monkey." This because of his fondness for doing all manner of wonderful tricks on a trapese or the parallel bars. He could hang by his toes from the limb of a tree, and never seemed alarmed in the slightest degree because twenty or more feet lay between his dangling figure and the earth below. Of course, then, this was Monkey Eggleston. He had received his orders from Ted, and was carrying them out with more or less delight. Paul calculated that he intended to drop down into the centre of the camp, unseen, his presence unsuspected by the sentries, who would be looking the other way for signs of trouble. Then what? A vicious boy let loose in a camp for half an hour, with a good sharp knife in his possession, can do a tremendous amount of destruction. Why, he might begin by cutting the bags that held their sugar, so that every bit of it mixed with the soil and was lost. Half a dozen other things seemed to flash through Paul's mind as he crouched there and watched the dimly seen figure descending slowly from limb to limb. Two courses were open to the scout leader. He could shout out, and bring every sleeper dashing from the tents; after which the tree might be surrounded, and the spy compelled to surrender. Then again he could wait and watch. His curiosity was aroused to some extent. He really wondered what the game of Monkey Eggleston could be. And so he determined to simply creep up closer, without giving the alarm. At the proper time he would start things moving. Of course, if one of the sentries happened to think that the fire should be looked after, and came forward to throw on more fuel, it might interfere with the plans of the boy in the tree. But Wallace would not do this unless Paul gave the signal agreed on; and the patrol leader was rather of the opinion the other two fellows might be sound asleep, being unaccustomed to such a vigil. He just caught a fleeting glimpse of something dropping lightly to the ground close beside the mess tent. This he knew must be Monkey. He had accomplished the first part of his errand, and now came the question of what he meant to do next. Paul pushed in closer, anxious to see what was going on, for the spy was in the midst of the supplies gathered under the canvas cover. Just as though his coming might have been discovered, a dark figure made a sudden spring away from the spot. As the intruder bounded past the smouldering fire he seemed to bend over and throw something into it. Instantly a bright illumination took place, dazzling in its effect. With the crash of the spy's retreating footsteps echoed the loud cries that arose from the spot where Wallace was keeping guard: "Fire! fire! turn out here and save your bacon, fellows!" he shouted at the top of his voice. Figures came tumbling out of the tents. Every scout had been aroused by that dreadful summons, which might mean the wind-up of their jolly expedition before it had been started. Of all the disasters that in a camp must be viewed with anxiety, a fire ranks next to a sudden hurricane. Paul had spoken about these things so much that every fellow realized the seriousness of the case, even though he might be a tenderfoot, who had up to now never slept under canvas. Of course, as is usually the case, many lost their heads in the excitement. It could hardly have been otherwise, since they were new hands at the business. They ran back and forth, trembling with eagerness to do something heroic and grand, yet unable to collect their wits enough to see what ought to be accomplished first. Luckily all of them were not built that way. Had it been so there must have followed a dire disaster that would have put a damper on their budding hopes. Paul saw Wallace jumping directly for the sputtering fire that was running so strangely from point to point, and eating its way toward the shelter under which all their precious stores had been heaped up. "Whatever it is, he'll get it!" was the thought that flashed through Paul's brain at that instant. Relieved of this fear, he could turn his full attention toward the escaping spy. Monkey Eggleston must not get clear, if it could possibly be avoided. He had engaged in some sort of miserable trick, calculated to harm those who were paying attention to their own private business. He must be caught and made to confess. So, with that determination urging him on, Paul sprang in swift pursuit of the rapidly-disappearing form. Since the moon had gone down, and darkness prevailed, it was not easy to see the figure of the runner; but if Paul's eyes failed him his ears did not. The fugitive was making a tremendous amount of noise as he slammed through the woods. He collided with trees, stumbled over trailing vines, and sprawled across more than one half rotten log that chanced to lie in his path. Paul did much better. Perhaps he happened to possess eyes that were able to see in such semi-darkness; then again it might be his absence from the fire had much to do with his ability to discern obstacles in time to avoid contact with them. At any rate he knew one thing, which was, that slowly but surely he was overtaking the spy sent by the Slavin crowd to create havoc in the camp of the scouts. Paul also knew that it was perhaps a very unwise move on his part, this chasing so madly after Monkey Eggleston. Of course the fellow had friends not so far away, and the chances were he was even now heading toward the place where Monkey knew they would be waiting to hear his report. Still Paul would not give up. The fact that he was surely overtaking the other fellow acted as a sort of spur, urging him to continued efforts. Had the chase seemed hopeless he might have abandoned it after the first spurt; but now he felt that at any moment he was apt to pounce upon the object of his pursuit, who was floundering along just ahead. Suddenly the noise stopped. Either Monkey had been given a jolt in his last tumble that knocked the breath completely out of his body; or else he was "playing 'possum" in order to deceive his pursuer. Paul groped his way forward. The trees became more scattered, and what seemed to be a small glade dawned upon his sight. He had carefully noted the spot where the last sound was heard, and as he strained his eyes now he was able to make out a crouching figure within ten feet of him. "Ted?" said a quavering voice, "is that you?" Evidently Monkey was entertaining a little hope that after all it may have been his comrade who had chased after him so persistently. Paul did not reply, but moved swiftly forward. He saw the other make a move as though about to try and resume his flight; but the young scout leader of the Red Fox Patrol did not mean to let so fine a chance slip through his fingers. He made a quick spring that landed him on the fugitive. With all his strength Paul threw him back to the ground. "Got you, Monkey!" he exclaimed, triumphantly; "now you'll come back with me to our camp, and explain what sort of meanness you were up to, trying to burn us out!" The boy underneath seemed to be so badly frightened that he could hardly find his tongue to say a word. He had shown spirit enough when climbing through those trees to enter the hostile camp; yet now that he was held a prisoner his natural cowardice returned. But before Paul could drag him to his feet there was an unexpected interruption to the little affair. "Hey, boys!" called a voice he recognized as belonging to Ted Slavin, "get a move on you, and surround the wise guy. We've got him in a hole, and it's twenty-three for yours, Paul Morrison! He aint goin' to crawl out of this pickle, if we know it. Jump him, fellers!" CHAPTER XV LEFT IN THE LURCH "You don't say so, Ted?" sang out Paul. He knew that he was facing trouble, and that in an instant as it were, the conditions had entirely changed. From being the pursuer he now found himself with the shoe on the other foot. All the same, Paul was not at all daunted. He had encountered these fellows too many times in the past to fear them now. It was a question whether Monkey had intentionally led him into a set trap, or his coming upon the balance of the crowd might be looked on as an accident. Paul, remembering how the other had called out, under the impression that the one chasing after him might be his chief, had his own opinion. But this was no time for thinking it over. He could hear sounds as though several fellows were pushing forward, spreading out as if to try and surround him. Plainly then, he had better be moving, unless he cared to let the Slavin crowd get hold of him. Paul sprang away. He knew about how the ground lay. Catch as bright a chap as this young scout rushing wildly through the open woods without getting some idea as to the direction in which he was heading. He turned back over the course he had so lately covered. "He's gone, Ted!" whooped a voice; but it was not that of Monkey Eggleston; for that worthy was hardly in possession of enough breath to more than whisper. "After him then, every feller! We oughter get him after such a bully chance. Go it for all you're worth, d'ye hear, Scissors, Bud, and Pete!" But as for himself, Ted did not do much running. What was the use, when he had followers able and willing to obey the crook of his little finger? Besides, Ted knew what it meant to bang up against a tree in the dark, and knock the skin off one's nose. As long as the sound of pursuit could be plainly heard he continued to bellow out his orders, as though hoping to spur his followers on to success. Paul had little fear. Once again his keen sight was apt to play him a good turn; for he could avoid contact with obstacles that caught the others napping. He even laughed more than once when he heard a crash, and accompanying groans, from some point in his rear. "Good boy!" Paul said to himself, when the voice of Scissors was heard, lamenting the fact that a young chestnut seemed to have a harder surface than his forehead boasted; "just keep on some more, and you'll be the worst banged-up bunch Stanhope ever knew," and he could not keep from chuckling again as in his imagination he saw the sorry picture of the three pursuers when they returned to hand in their report, with a list of their bruises. Evidently the hot pursuit must have come to an end with that last collision on the part of Scissors. Paul, listening, could hear voices, as though the boys were condoling with one another; but there was no longer the sound of footsteps. After that there was no need of haste, and having figured out just where he was, Paul presently found the road. Of course all he had to do now was to walk along this, and in another minute he caught sight of a bright light ahead. He knew the boys must have started the several fires that had been laid for an emergency. They were doubtless more or less worried about his continued absence; but did not know which way to start the search. So Paul, to relieve their anxiety, sent out a call that would reach their ears and tell them that he was coming. And presently he walked up to the fire, where he was immediately surrounded by the excited scouts, all clamoring to know what he had discovered. "First tell me what Monkey Eggleston threw into the fire, that made such a flash," Paul insisted, turning to Wallace. The other held something up. It seemed to be a tin box, with a string attached. "What's all this?" asked Paul, and then, as he took it in his hands, he gave a cry of astonishment, adding: "why, I declare, if it doesn't look a little like one of those bombs you read about. And this is supposed to be the fuse, isn't it? Well, those fellows are getting along pretty swiftly when they try to blow up our supplies." Of course the "bomb" was not such a dreadful affair. True enough, the tin box contained quite a quantity of powder, but it was a question as to whether the explosion would have done very much damage, even had it occurred. No doubt it might have scattered things somewhat, and possibly a fire would have resulted, unless prompt measures were taken to stamp the sparks underfoot. What astonished the young scout leader, however, was the strange method of introducing the fake bomb among the supplies, and leading the end of the slow match to the smouldering fire. "What won't they try next?" said Jack, looking serious, as he took the contrivance once more in his hands. "Goodness knows," remarked Wallace; "but tell us about your adventure, Paul. We heard an awful shouting in the woods over yonder, and some of the boys wanted to start out hunting for you, but the racket stopped just then. Besides, Jack said that he believed you were getting the best of it." "Do you know why I said that?" interrupted Jack; "well, you see, I knew it was those fellows doing the hollering, and they sounded as if they were mad; so I made up my mind they wouldn't yelp _that_ way if they had their hands on Paul." "Which was clever reasoning, Jack," declared his chum, instantly. "You had your wits about you that time. I'm glad the whole camp didn't take to rushing through the woods, chasing a jack-o'-lantern. What a jolly time we'd have had rounding up the bunch again. Now, sit down, and I'll tell you just what happened." It was laughable to see how the eyes of some of the scouts seemed to almost stick out of their heads when they listened to how Paul first discovered the moving object up in the big oak. They turned their heads, and looked up eagerly, as though half expecting to see another monkey-like form hanging from a limb. So the story was soon told. Many were the exclamations of wonder after the end had been reached. A multitude of questions poured in on Paul; but he shook his head, saying: "Keep those for to-morrow, fellows. What we want now is to repair our fences, and get some sleep. But you can see how important it is that every scout placed on guard keep his eyes and ears open, ready to give warning in case the enemy try their tricks on us." He did not reproach the two boys who had been on duty at the time he and Wallace held forth, though strongly suspecting that they must have been asleep. But what he said caused more than one cheek to flush; and doubtless a number of lads inwardly resolved that from henceforth they would never, never allow themselves to slacken their vigilance when on post. Nothing more was heard from the Slavin crowd on that night. Paul could easily guess why; for in imagination he saw the faces of Monkey Eggleston, Scissors, Bud and possibly several others, decorated with strips of court plaster, intended to hide the results of their tree-hugging adventures. He only hoped that the lesson would be taken to heart, and cause those trouble-makers to avoid the camps of the scouts in the future; but knowing the nature of both Ted and Ward, he did not have much expectation that way. Bobolink had them all up at dawn with the reveille call upon his beloved bugle. This never left his side, and some of the boys jokingly declared that he cuddled it in his arms while he slept, for fear lest some prank-loving scout hide it away, just to tease him. The cooks got busy, and presently there was a delicious odor of coffee around that region, together with that of frying bacon. William was master of ceremonies when it came time to start operations looking to a supply of flapjacks. He had willing imitators in the cooks of the other two patrols; and while they may not have met with the same glorious success that attended his own efforts, the results were so pleasing to the still hungry scouts that every scrap of batter prepared was used up. Even then there were lamentations because of a shortage in the supply of pancakes. There was no hurry to get off. Paul was too wise a commander to spoil the pleasure of his comrades by unseemly haste, with so much time before them. About nine o'clock the command started forth, with Bluff's drum beating time, and the inspiring notes of the bugle lending vigor to their eager feet. By noon some of those who had seemed most chipper at the beginning of the day's tramp were limping more or less, though still full of grit, and a determination not to lag behind. The country was getting very wild now. Occasionally they began to have glimpses of the upper Bushkill, when the forest opened more or less. Later on the road was likely to skirt the river, they understood, when conditions would be prime for possibly a swim, or some fishing, which latter, they imagined must be good so far away from town. They were still taking it easy after eating a lunch that possibly cleaned up every scrap of the goodies prepared by fond mothers and sisters; when Paul, who was sitting talking to Jack, noticed a vehicle coming swiftly along the road. Whoever occupied the rig seemed to be in somewhat of a hurry, for he was every now and then whipping the horse, which showed signs of fatigue, as though it had come quite some ways. As the man drove past he raised his head to look with a frown in the direction of the scout encampment. Paul did not like his appearance at all. Indeed, he was of the opinion that the man might even have stolen the rig somewhere; for he acted as though anxious to get away. But his bewilderment increased when he saw Joe Clausin suddenly jump to his feet and stare after the departing stranger, his face turning very white. "Oh! it's him, it's him!" Paul plainly heard him exclaim. CHAPTER XVI AT THE FOOT OF RATTLESNAKE MOUNTAIN "Who?" demanded William, as he caught the low-spoken words of Joe Clausin. "Yes, tell us about him, Joe," went on another of the scouts. "I never saw the man before, and I shouldn't like to meet him on a dark night either. Ugh!" But Joe turned suddenly red, and shook his head, trying to pass the thing off with a laugh. "Thought I knew the duck, fellers, but I reckon I must have been mistaken, 'cause you see, the man I took him for is away off at the other side of the world right now," he said. But Paul's keen eyes saw that Joe did not believe any such thing. "Say, boys, Joe's taken to seeing double," jeered William; "the coffee must have gone to his head. We'll have to remember next time, and make him a cup of grandmother tea." Paul had something to think over. In connection with the strange robbery of the feed-man's place, and the queer actions of Mr. Clausin then and since, it was little wonder that the young scout leader connected this new event with the other. He tried to figure it out, but all seemed a blank. No doubt, if he could at some time coax Joe to confess who it was he believed this stranger to be, who was in the vehicle, and who looked back so often as he whipped his tired horse, the puzzle might not appear quite so dense. But Joe was apparently in no mood just then for any confession. He seemed to have set his teeth firmly together, as though determined that not one of his comrades must learn the slightest thing about his troubles. Paul tried to picture the face of the man as he had caught it in that one rapid glimpse. Had he ever known him? There _did_ seem to be some little familiar look about his expression; but try as he would he could not seem to place the other just then. But Joe knew; Joe was not in a maze of doubt; and the knowledge did not seem to have given the Clausin boy any great pleasure either; which made the enigma all the more like a tangle to Paul. Again the Banner Boy Scouts set forth. After the rest, and a little attention paid to their aching feet the cripples were able to keep up with the rest for an hour or so. By degrees they would perhaps become hardened to this sort of work. When a boy has never done much steady walking it comes tough for a time. He may be used to playing all day, but that means a change of action. It is the steady grind, hour after hour, that tells on his lower extremities, until they get hardened to the test. At three they came upon the river, and Paul understood that it would be more or less of a companion to their march from that time on. Every fellow greeted it with delight. It seemed like an old friend, because they had been accustomed to skating on its frozen surface, and bathing in its pellucid depths, year after year. "Don't it look good to meet with a familiar friend, though?" cried Bobolink taking off his hat, and making a most respectful bow in the direction of the gurgling water. "Listen, would you?" scoffed William, always ready to get in a sly dig at his comrade; "to hear him talk you'd think we'd been away from home a solid month; when it was only yesterday we broke the apron strings, and sauntered forth, bent on adventure. What will he do when a whole long week has crawled along. Oh! me, oh! my! I see his finish, poor old Bobolink!" But despite his words, even William cast many a fond side look at the noisy stream that was foaming among the rocks; for was it not heading toward Stanhope, where the softest of beds lay unused, and all manner of good things to eat were doubtless going to waste during the absence of twenty hungry boys? Wilder still grew the country. Even Paul had had no idea it could be so rough within twenty miles of home. But as a rule the boys of Stanhope had confined their tramps and wheeling trips to the other three sides of the town; since the roads were much better, and the country level; so that no one knew anything about this region, save through hearsay. "Oh! look, there it is!" ejaculated A. Cypher, who happened to be in the lead just as they came out of a woody tract, and turned a bend in the rough road. During the last hour Paul had abandoned all idea of holding the scouts in any sort of regular formation, so that it had become, what William called, a "free-for-all," with khaki-clad lads stretched out along fifty yards of space, usually in small squads, and a rear guard to round up stragglers. Of course these words from Nuthin caused a great craning of necks. Those who at the time chanced to be in the rear hastened their steps, eager to discover what it was attracted so much attention on the part of their chums. "Why, it's the mountain!" said Horace Poole, with a trace of wonder in his voice. "Sure it is, old Rattlesnake, at home," declared William, promptly. "Wow! don't it look awful big, fellows?" remarked the awed Tom Betts. "And d-d-dark as a c-c-cellar!" remarked Bluff, solemnly. Paul looked with considerable interest at the great pile of rock and brush that loomed up so close at hand. Many a time during the past two years he had planned to make a run up here, with the idea of seeing for himself if all the strange stories he had heard about grim old Rattlesnake Mountain could be true. They had always been broken up, either through his intended companion backing down, or else some family flitting that took one of the boys away from Stanhope during the holidays. But now the long anticipated day had come at last. He was looking up at the big mountain, only a short distance away; and while the scouts could hardly expect to climb its rocky side that day, possibly camp might be made at the base. Even the cripples seemed to mend under the promise of reaching the foot of the mountain that afternoon. They walked briskly for half an hour at least, and then fell back into the same old limp, though proving game for the finish. "No signs of wheels around here, are there, Paul?" asked Jack, as he sought the side of his chum at the head of the straggling procession. "Now that's queer, but d'ye know I was just thinking about that same thing," the scout leader remarked. "To tell you the truth I was examining the ground as I went along. Perhaps you noticed me, and that's why you spoke?" "Yes, that gave me an idea," admitted Jack, readily enough. "I wondered whether those fellows could have gone past us last night while we were in camp, and are even now perched somewhere on the mountain, watching us crawl along down here." "Well, that's just what they've done. See here, you can notice the marks of the bicycle tires in the road. Little travel away up here, and along the side where it's smoothest they've gone single file, following the motorcycle of Ward, I guess." "Why didn't we see that before, then?" demanded Jack, frowning as he eyed the tell-tale marks. "I have looked a number of times," Paul went on; "but couldn't see anything. So you can understand it gave me something of a shock just now to discover the tracks." "Have you reasoned it out?" asked his chum; knowing full well that Paul would never allow such a problem to remain unsolved long. "There's only one explanation Jack, that I can see. Perhaps you remember noticing a little side road that joined with this one about a quarter of a mile back?" "Of course, I remember it. Then you think----" "They must have come out of that road ahead of us," Paul went on. "That's the way they got in their licks. Somebody knew about how it turned around, and joined on to the main stem again. What do you say, Jack?" "Why, of course. And now I remember hearing Scissors boast that he had the only map ever made of the Rattlesnake Mountain country--a logger charted it one winter, hoping to get his governor interested in some timber cutting scheme he had in mind, which fell through though." "That settles it. They're on the ground first; but what do we care about that, if they only leave us alone?" Paul remarked, seriously. "There's a call for you, Paul, from some of the fellows in the rear," observed Jack, just then. "I think they want to snap off a view of old Rattlesnake, with the troop stretched out along the road here. The sun is dropping lower all the while, and if we're going to get a picture we'll all want to keep, it ought to be right now." "A good idea, and I'll do everything I can to help out," laughed the leader. The command was ordered to fall in, so as to present an orderly appearance in the picture that was to be taken from the rear. "We don't want to look like a bunch of hoboes trailing along," declared Jud. "And every fellow quit limping, or you'll just spoil the whole business," pleaded the one who was delegated to use the camera, he being the best expert the troop boasted in this line, and winner in the competition of the preceding Autumn. The picture taken, they once more broke ranks, and pushed forward. At five o'clock they found themselves at what seemed to be the base of the high and forbidding mountain over which the road wound. "Oh! please say Alabama, here we rest!" called one of the limping pilgrims. Paul had been closely observing the ground, and as if in reply he made a gesture that Bobolink readily understood. Immediately the bugle sounded, and a cheer broke forth, since every member of the troop felt more or less jaded with the long day's walk, and ready to call it off. Immediately a scene of bustle ensued. The wagon was emptied of its load, and tents confiscated by the various patrols. Good-natured disputes and chaffing accompanied each tent raising; but the boys had by this time become more or less accustomed to the various duties connected with making camp, as well as breaking up, and so in what seemed a very short time all the canvas was in place. After that fireplaces were scooped out, just as on the previous afternoon; only now they called it an old story. Every boy was learning things he had never known by actual experience before. Reading of such woodcraft in books is very good, but it does not compare with the personal trial. Once these things are actually _done_ by an observant lad, and he will never in all his life forget the lesson. Long before dusk began to set in, the supper was under way; and hungry fellows walked to and fro trying to stand the intense agony of waiting for the summons. CHAPTER XVII JOE DECLINES TO TELL "Joe, I'd like to have you step over here a minute!" Supper had been eaten amid the best of feeling. The assembled scouts forgot for the time being all their troubles. Lame feet failed to ache, and tired knees had all the buoyancy of youth again. The mysterious mountain towered above them, seeming to invite a further and closer acquaintance. Beside the camp ran the brawling stream, and the noise of its rushing water would either lull the tired lads to sleep, or else keep them from doing so. Trees overhung the numerous tents; and on the whole the camp was a pretty sight, as many a lad declared in his log of the trip. When Joe heard Paul say the few words that begin this chapter he gave a sudden start, and looked up quickly. But the patrol leader and acting scoutmaster had already turned away, and was walking beyond the confines of the camp. After hesitating a moment Joe scrambled to his feet, and followed his chief. He acted as though he more than half suspected just what it was Paul wanted to say to him; for several times Joe gritted his teeth, and shook his head in a way he had; for he was known to be very stubborn sometimes. He found Paul on the bank of the Bushkill. He had seated himself on a convenient rock, and was waiting. The moon drifted in through openings among the trees, and falling on the water made it look like silver; with frosting here and there, where the foam splashed up around the rocks lying in the bed of the stream. "What d'ye want, Paul?" asked Joe, as he came up. The noise of the moving water was such that he had to elevate his voice more than a little in order to be heard distinctly. "Sit down here, Joe, please," remarked Paul, pleasantly. "I wanted to have a little talk with you on the side, where none of the boys could hear, that's all." "About what?" asked the other, weakly. "Well, perhaps it's none of my business; but since I chanced to be one of those with you the night we found your father, and heard about his losing that little tin box with those valuable papers, I thought perhaps you might be willing to take me into your confidence, Joe. I want to help you all I can. You believe that, don't you?" Joe moved uneasily. He had accepted the invitation to sit down, but his manner was not at all confidential. "Why, of course I do, Paul," Joe presently observed, slowly, "I know you're always ready to help any fellow who gets in trouble. There ain't a better friend in the whole troop than you are to everybody. But what's got you now? Have I been a doin' anything I hadn't ought to?" "You know it isn't that, Joe. I wanted to speak to you about that tin box your father said was taken from him that night." "Oh, was that it?" remarked Joe, faintly, and catching his breath. "You believe that I'd like to help get it back for him, don't you?" demanded the young patrol leader. "I remember hearing you say you'd be glad to have a hand in recoverin' it; and I guess you meant it every time, Paul," came the reply. "Well," Paul continued, "perhaps the chance may come to me up here on Rattlesnake Mountain, Joe. It would be queer now, wouldn't it, if, in coming up to this country we just happened to land on the chap who was in your father's store that night, and put out the lamp after he had picked up that little old tin box, eh?" Joe seemed to have some difficulty in answering. He appeared to be swallowing a lump in his throat as though it threatened to choke him. "Why, yes," he presently managed to mutter, "that would be funny now, for a fact. My dad'd like mighty well to get that stuff back, Paul, sure he would." "Perhaps then you wouldn't mind telling me who that man was, Joe," remarked Paul, quietly. "What man?" queried Joe, though his voice betrayed the fact that he knew only too well what his friend was driving at. "I chanced to see you when that party drove past our noon camp," said Paul, softly. "You recognized him, Joe, I am sure you did; and you showed every sign of being both startled and alarmed." "Huh! well," Joe stammered, "you see it did give me a sorter start, because he looked like somebody I knew was at the other side of the world right then. I reckon you'd feel upset like, Paul, if you thought you saw a ghost." "Perhaps I would," replied the patrol leader, quickly; "but you immediately knew that it wasn't a ghost. Still, it has been bothering you all the afternoon, Joe." "Say, what makes you think that?" "I've watched you when you didn't think anybody was looking," Paul went on. "I've seen you shake your head and talk to yourself as if you might be trying to believe something your common sense told you couldn't be so. How about it, Joe?" "Oh! I'm willing to admit I've been mixed up about that thing, and bad too," confessed Joe, as if brought to bay; "but I ain't goin' to say anything about it, not just yet anyhow. I must see dad first, and get his opinion." "Well, I don't want to force you, Joe, against your will. If you think it best to keep your little secret, do it; but perhaps later on you may be changing your mind. If we just happened to meet up with that gentleman while we knocked around old Rattlesnake Mountain, perhaps you'd be glad to get back that tin box again." "Sure I would, Paul. Please don't think I'm not wantin' to trust you, because I hold back. I want to think it all over by myself to-night. Perhaps in the mornin' I might tell you about it." "Then I won't say anything more now, Joe. Only believe that I'm ready to do everything I can to help you. That man came all the way up here." "How d'ye know that?" "Why, even a tenderfoot could tell that much," observed the patrol leader, calmly; "his horse left marks all the way. If you went out on the road now, and lit a match, you'd see the print of shod hoofs, and the lines made by the wheels. So you see, Joe, it wouldn't be so strange if we _did_ happen to run across him some fine day." "Oh! I wonder what I ought to do? What would dad say if he knew?" and muttering half to himself in this way, Joe wandered back to his seat beside the big fire that was making all outdoors look bright with color and warmth. Paul was more mystified than ever. Who could that man be, and why should poor Joe feel so badly over having set eyes on him? If he were an ordinary person, and suspicion pointed his way, one would think that the son of the feed-man would welcome his detention, which might result in the finding of the stolen property. But on the contrary Joe seemed to be dreadfully alarmed over something. "Oh! well," Paul finally said to himself as he left the rock and turned to go back to the camp; "it may be a family secret of some sort, and I have no business to be poking into it. I'll just keep my hands off, and wait for Joe to speak, if he cares to. Besides, I've got plenty of other things to keep me hustling." He happened to glance up at the frowning mountain while walking away from the river bank. Suddenly there flashed a little light away up yonder. Once, twice it seemed to flash up, and then was gone. "Now, I wonder what that could be?" said a voice close beside him. "Why, hello, Wallace, is that you?" laughed Paul; "and I guess you must have made the same discovery I did?" "Meaning that queer little light up there, eh, Paul?" remarked the other, who had been walking about uneasily, and just chanced to face upward at the time the double flash came. "Yes. I wonder what it was," Paul went on, thoughtfully. "I happen to know that Ted and his bunch are ahead of us somewhere, and that might have been a signal to fellows who were left down here to do something to upset our camp." "Now, do you know, Paul," Wallace went on; "I hadn't thought of that. I'll tell you what it looked like to me--some man lighting his pipe. You saw the light go up and down; that was when he puffed. But it was too far away to see any face." Paul, remembering the man who had gone up the side of the mountain with that rig, wondered very much whether Wallace could be right, and if the unknown was even then looking down upon them from that height. This made him turn his thoughts back to the noon camp, and try to remember whether the man in the buggy had shown that he recognized Joe at the time the boy so suddenly sprang to his feet with a cry. At any rate the unknown had whipped up his horse, and seemed in a great hurry to depart from the spot. That night the Banner Boy Scouts were just as merry as before. A banjo had been brought along, and to the plunkety-plunk of its tuneful music they sang every popular song known among Stanhope's rising generation. "I just don't exactly like the looks of the sky," remarked Wallace, as the time for sounding taps drew near. He had found Paul examining the ropes of the various tents as though curious to see how well they had been secured. "That's why I'm overhauling these tent pins and ropes," laughed the other, as he rose up. "The clouds have rolled up, and it feels as if we might have a bit of a Summer storm. Perhaps it would be a good thing for the boys to have an experience like that, if only our supplies can be kept dry." When they finally retired, the sky seemed to have cleared again. Paul set his guards and took his place in his tent, for his turn would not come until later. He was tired and soon fell into a heavy sleep. Jack was on duty, and could be depended on to keep a good watch. Paul was aroused from slumber by loud cries. Sitting hurriedly up he found the tent wabbling to and fro in a violent manner, while the air seemed full of the most alarming sounds. He crawled out without wasting a minute, and shouted aloud to make the balance of the boys get busy before everything was swept away by the violence of the gale. CHAPTER XVIII A CLOSE CALL "Hold 'em! hold 'em!" whooped William, as he found himself mixed up in the canvas of the tent which had fallen in a heap; for evidently he was of the opinion that all this racket must be caused by those vindictive workers of evil, Ted Slavin and his crowd. "Look to your tent pins, fellows!" shouted Paul, lustily, as he hurried around to lend what assistance lay in his power. He had little fear about his own tent, understanding just how it had been put up. But all of the scouts were not so well versed in the little tricks known to those who spend much time under canvas; and there was a chance that others would share the sad fate that had already befallen poor William. Then there was a great scurrying to and fro. As the storm broke the boys shuddered and held on to the ropes for dear life, regardless of the fact that they were clad only in pajamas, which were soon rain soaked. "Never mind that little thing, fellows," sang out the care-free Bobolink; "because you know we can get plenty of dry clothes after she's over; but if you let the tents blow away, where, oh! where do we come in? Hold hard, everybody; here comes another bluff at us. Wow! get a grip on my legs, will you? I'm agoin' to fly, that's what!" But some of his mates held on doggedly, and Bobolink consented to remain on earth a while longer. As long as it lasted it was one of the greatest short storms most of the scouts could remember ever experiencing. But then, up to now, they had been pretty much in the habit of viewing such convulsions of nature from the shelter of a snug harbor in the shape of a home window; and things looked vastly different when the same Summer gale was met, with tents threatening to carry away, and the trees groaning in the furious wind. "She's over!" cried Jack, at last, when the storm seemed to come to a halt almost as suddenly as it had broken. No one was sorry. Repairs were quickly undertaken, after the boys had donned some dry clothes; for the air was chilly after the rain, and being soaked to the skin they found themselves shivering. William had managed to crawl out from under his tent, with the help of others. He had several bumps to prove what a close call it had been. The others could not lose a chance to poke fun at him; for it was not often the opportunity came when the fun-maker of the troop could be caught napping. "Next time, get a move on you, old slow poke!" one advised, when William ventured to complain that it was mean in their deserting him to his fate. "Yes, Mr. Tortoise, you'll have to learn how to crawl better than that, if you expect to stay with this fast crowd," declared Tom Betts. "But every time I started to get out," William declared, ruefully, "somebody would stick his foot in my face, and climb all over me. Then the blessed thing dropped flat, and left me swimming all alone. Of course I thought it was some more of Ted's fine sport, and I hoped you chaps were flagging 'em. After that the water came in on me. Ugh!" "What did you think then, old molasses in Winter?" asked Bobolink; shaking the last of the water out of his precious bugle, and carefully wiping its brass mouthpiece with his handkerchief. "Why," said William, grinning, "at first I thought the river had overflowed its banks, and was going to carry me all the way down to Stanhope. Then I heard the wind and the thunder, when it struck me there was something of a storm. So I just laid still; for I knew you fellows wouldn't want me bothering around while you worked like fun to hold the rest of the tents from going by the board." "Listen to him, would you, Paul?" exclaimed one of the others. "He knew all along we were hard pushed to hold out, and yet he just snuggled there, and wouldn't give a helping hand. What kind of a scout are you, anyway, William?" "Well," returned the accused one, in his drawling way, "I didn't want to cut a hole in the canvas, you see; and I couldn't get out any other way. Come to think of it, I don't generally carry my knife around in my pajamas, like some fellows do bugles, and such trash." "Rats!" flashed back Bobolink, disdainfully, "you're just jealous of my noble calling, that's all." "He's always calling, ain't he, fellows?" asked William. "I expect to see him sit up in his sleep some night, and scare us half out of our lives by tooting away to beat the band. I'm going to get up a petition that the old horn be muzzled every night before we go to our little beds on the hemlock browse." A fire was, after some little trouble, started. Paul had been wise enough to keep some fine kindling in his tent for just such an emergency. Even had it been otherwise he would have known just how to get at the heart of a dead tree, which would yield the necessary dry wood to make a beginning. Such hunter's tricks were well known to Paul, likewise to Wallace; and before this tour came to an end most of the others would have picked up scores of such bits of knowledge, likely to be of use to them whenever they chanced to be in the great woods. The sky was clear again long before the last boy had concluded that it was safe to crawl into his tent once more, and try to sleep. And whoever happened to be on guard, kept the fire going throughout the remainder of that eventful night. No further adventure broke upon their heads, and in good time dawn appeared in the eastern sky. There was much merriment as the boys went for a morning dip in the waters of the Bushkill. Many jokes were made about the new order of things in camp that necessitated a shower-bath at midnight. "Be careful, fellows," Paul admonished, as he saw that most of the scouts were bent on trying the water of the rapid little stream. "There's a bad current here, and if it gets hold of you grab a rock and yell. To be dashed down there wouldn't be the nicest thing going." Jack agreed to keep an eye on the clump, for Paul had duties in camp just then. He expected to take a dip himself a little later on. Hardly had ten minutes passed before he heard a loud series of shouts. "Hold hard, Tom! Make a chain there, you fellows, and get him before he lets go! Hurry up, can't you?" It was Jack Stormways shouting these words. Paul knew instantly that some one must have been caught by the current, and was in danger of being dragged along down the stream to where it dashed wildly against the rocks. The young patrol leader lost not an instant. Snatching up a rope that happened to lie handy, he rushed for the bank of the river. Instinct caused him to head for a point below where Jack was standing, trying to reach some object with a long pole he handled awkwardly. Even in that thrilling moment Paul could think, and was able to understand that the ever flowing current must sweep any helpless swimmer past Jack's position in quick order. As he ran Paul was trying to fashion a loop in the end of the rope. Had he not been perfectly calm he could never have succeeded in doing this difficult feat; but when he reached the bank he had managed to accomplish it. What he saw was a tumble of water, which was almost covered with foam. Somewhere in this poor Tom Betts must be floating, churned back and forth by the suction of the current that was striving to escape from the whirl. Jack had evidently lost sight of the drowning lad completely, for he was even then running toward Paul, his face as white as chalk. There! Paul had just a fleeting glimpse of the boy in the foamy water. He had thrust one arm up rather feebly, as though almost gone. Perhaps his head had come in contact with a rock while he was swimming, and this had dazed him; for ordinarily Tom Betts was a clever swimmer. Paul waited for no more. He was down the bank like a flash, and wading into the water, regardless of clothes. What did it matter about his getting wet, when a precious human life was in peril. Again he caught a glimpse of the boy's arm amid all that spud and foam. But the first attempt to throw the loop of his rope over it resulted in failure. Paul instantly changed his tactics. Reversing the coil, he cast the loop over a friendly stump that chanced to be at hand; then, gripping the rope in his hand, he boldly cast himself into the midst of that whirl of froth and spinning water. Fortune was kind, for almost immediately he came in contact with the unconscious lad, and was able to throw an arm about him. The fierce stream tried in vain to drag him down into other basins below; but Paul had his hand twisted in the coils of that rope, and would not let go. "Hold on, Paul; we'll pull you in!" shouted Jack on the bank, as he clutched the lifeline and began to exert his full strength. "Hurrah! Paul's got him! It's all right!" whooped others, as they lent a hand. Of course Paul was quickly dragged into shallow water, where willing hands relieved him of his burden. Tom looked dreadful, being deathly white, and very limp. But Paul could not believe the boy had been under the water long enough to be drowned. Immediately he had the others bring the senseless boy up to the camp, where he was placed on his chest. Kneeling down, with one leg on either side, Paul placed his palms on Tom's back just where the small ribs could be felt. Then by leaning forward, and pressing downward, he forced the air and water from the lungs of the patient; relaxing the movement allowed air to creep in a little, when the operation was repeated time and time again. Sometimes it may take an hour to make this artificial respiration successful; so that it is not wise to desist until every hope is gone. Many a person has been saved after it seemed next to a miracle that life might be restored. With Tom it was not a difficult problem. He had been stunned by the blow received in his contact with the rock, and hence little water had entered his lungs. In five minutes he was showing signs of coming to; his arms, extended above his head while this process of pumping air into him was being conducted, twitched and moved; then he groaned, and finally made a move as if he wanted to get up. Ten minutes after being taken from the water he was sitting up, and asking what all the fuss was about. Tom afterwards confessed to a dim recollection of feeling something hitting him a dull blow in the head; after that he knew nothing more until he opened his eyes to see his mates clustered around, and hear them give lusty cheers. But he heard how Paul had acted so wisely, and while Tom was a fellow not much given to words, at the first opportunity he thanked his friend with tears in his eyes; for he was thinking of a fond mother at home, and what a blow she must have received had he been drowned. The boys cared little about indulging themselves in any more bathing in that treacherous portion of the fast-running Bushkill. Down around Stanhope they understood its various moods; but up in this Rattlesnake Mountain district it was quite a different thing. Breakfast appealed more to them, and they went at it with a will. Tom was exempt from any menial labor on that morning. Warmly dressed, and placed close to the roaring fire, he watched his chums work, and thought what a splendid thing it was he had not been alone at the time the accident happened. And Paul was more than glad it turned out so well. Had a tragedy come to pass, their joyous outing must have met with a sudden halt, and the return journey to Stanhope would have been a sad one indeed. "What's the programme for to-day?" asked Jack, as they all sat around, eating the fine breakfast the patrol cooks had served. "Another hike, and this time up the mountain," returned Paul. "It will be our last for a while, at least, for when we get settled in another camp I hope to stay there until our scoutmaster arrives." "And when do you look for Mr. Gordon, Paul?" queried Wallace, who seemed to have lost his appetite after seeing how near a companion had come to a terrible death. "Any hour after this. He said he would use my wheel in coming up here, so as to make better time. I'll be glad when he comes," and Paul gave a sigh as he glanced around at the score of boyish faces turned toward him; to let his gaze rest finally on that of genial Tom Betts, whom he had known pretty much all his life. Nor indeed could Paul be blamed for wishing to pass the responsibility on to broader shoulders, more capable of bearing it. He was only a boy, and it seemed to him that since he had been placed in charge of this expedition, with all its attendant cares and trials, his spirit had been almost crushed. But the camp was broken, and with much laughter the scouts began to climb the side of mysterious old Rattlesnake Mountain, of course Paul managed to forget most of his troubles, and his merriment rang out as loud as that of any other. So, boosting and pulling at old Dobbin, they made the ascent by slow degrees, and by noon had reached a point that afforded them a grand view of the country away off toward the south, the east and the west; but it was toward the first named region that many a wishful look was given, for did not Stanhope lie yonder--and home? CHAPTER XIX INDIAN PICTURE WRITING "We'll never get that old horse any higher up than this, Paul," said Jud Elderkin. The scouts were sitting there with that fine panorama spread out before them, and eating a sort of pick-up lunch. At breakfast time enough food had been prepared to carry them along for another meal. After that Paul had promised that they would very likely be in a permanent camp, and might expect to have decent fare right along. "Fact of the matter is, Jud," replied the leader of the expedition, "we don't need to, fortunately." "What's that, Paul; not going to camp right here, I hope?" questioned the scout leader of the second patrol. Jud shot a swift look across the country down below, and Paul smiled when he saw the direction of the glance. "I understand what you mean," he remarked, immediately. "You imagine that if we stayed here any length of time some of the tenderfeet would be running away." "Oh! well," Jud went on to say, "what would be the use of tantalizing the poor chaps? Hear 'em disputing right now whether that shining thing they see far away in the distance is the brass hand on the top of the church steeple in Stanhope, or the wind vane on the court house cupola? Anyhow, it stands for Stanhope; and if they were where they could stare out yonder by the hour some of 'em would skip before another night, I'm afraid." "And you're just right, old fellow," Paul remarked. "I'm glad you noticed that sign, for we'd hate to have any desertions, now that we've made such a great start. But your other guess was away off. I haven't the slightest idea of holding over here." "Then the road----" began Jud. "Makes a bend just beyond," Paul broke in with, "and goes no further up that way. This is the last peep any of us are likely to have of far-away Stanhope till we come out again on the way home." "That's all right, then. Now that you mention it, I can see how the road does take a turn a little way along. What do you suppose we're apt to strike there, Paul? I'm more than anxious to get wise." But the acting scoutmaster only shrugged his shoulders. "You really don't know, then?" continued Jud. "Only what I've heard. Some say there's a fine lake back here a few miles. And that's what I'm hoping to strike, for a spot to camp," returned Paul. "Well, I've heard that same thing," said Jud, slowly, "but never more than half believed it. Just as like as not we'll find it only a duck pond. But a camp always seems more like the real thing if it's only near water." "I always thought so," Paul admitted, "and I've been in a few dandy camps in my time. My people have gone up in Maine every Summer for a long while, you know. But this year they are going to stay home for a change. Father hates to turn over his practice to any one else; and to tell the truth I said I wanted to be right here." "Bully for you, Paul. We all feel that we owe you a lot for the way you've stuck to us through thick and thin. We'd never have won that banner there if----" But Paul would not listen. "Stow that sort of talk, Jud!" he exclaimed. "I've done my best, but it wasn't any more than lots of the other fellows could do. If we'd gotten hold of Mr. Gordon in time he'd have made a better troop than we were. He knows a heap along many lines." "Yes," remarked Jud, with a nod, "by theory, but I just bet you if it came down to practice you could beat him out every time. But what was it I saw you doing at our last camp, just before we pulled up stakes?" "I was leaving a letter for Mr. Gordon when he came along," replied Paul, with a mysterious smile. "What sort of a letter now, I'd like to know? Seemed to me you were marking on a piece of birch bark, which you stuck on a stick close to where our fire had been. And Paul," with a grin, "I had the curiosity to take a sly look at the same as I passed by." "Yes. What did you see?" asked the patrol leader, quietly. "Why, it looked to me like you'd gone back some years, and started drawing funny animals, and such things," replied Jud. "Just what they were, old fellow," said Paul, confidentially; "but when our scoutmaster takes one of these slips of bark up, he'll read what I've marked on it just as you would a letter. He and I have become deeply interested in the old method of Indian picture writing, you see. Signs stand for words with them. A whole story can be made in a dozen characters or groups." "Oh! I remember something about that I read once," remarked Jud, with a look of deep interest; "and if you don't mind I wish you'd give me a few pointers about that sign business, some time. I'd like to know, the worst kind." "Oh! no trouble about that. All you have to do is to use your head a little, and make your signs plain enough so that they can be understood. Now, I'm going to leave a letter for Mr. Gordon right here. Watch how I do it," and Paul picked up a good-sized bit of clear bark he had evidently prepared for the purpose. "You see," he began, "I use a lead pencil because it's more convenient, that's all. If I didn't have it, I'd just take a black brand from the fire; or even scratch the characters on the smooth bark. And first of all to tell him that twenty-one white soldier boys camped here." He rapidly drew just that number of rude figures, diminutive enough to be crowded around what was plainly a spread out luncheon. They had hats on their heads, and a flag was to be seen in the picture. A wagon and a horse occupied one corner. "Now," Paul went on, "you see that I've indicated these fellows spent a brief time here. He will understand that it was noon from the round sun I've drawn _directly above the cluster_. To show that they are eating I have made a coffee pot in the hand of one, though that was hardly the truth, for we've had none this time. But I guess it's always allowable to stretch things _just a little_ in these picture stories. They were white because they all wear hats. Do you get it, Jud?" "Easy as falling off a log. Why, I could read that myself, if I was lost and happened to fall into this place," replied Jud, positively. "Sure you could," laughed Paul. "That's the object of this picture writing; to make it so clear that anybody would know. We're not trying to puzzle people now. This isn't what you'd call a cryptogram; not much. It's the primer of writing. A kid could tell what it all stood for. And these Indians are just like kids, you see." "Well, go on," pleaded the leader of the second patrol, "I'm dead stuck on this thing, for I can see what lots of fun we will have with it up in the woods. How are you going to tell Mr. Gordon that we hiked out of here, and headed due west from this point?" "Oh!" answered Paul, readily enough, "I might use just the letter W; but you see that wouldn't do for an Indian, who doesn't know what it means. To him west means the setting sun, just as east is signified by its rising, and noon by an overhead disc. So suppose I draw a rude hand, with the finger pointing toward a sun that is half down behind a line? Wouldn't that be apt to tell him we went west from here?" "Why, dead sure. He couldn't mistake that. The level line I take it is meant for the horizon?" Jud continued, deeply impressed by the simplicity of this method of communicating between separated friends. "Yes. Well, now he knows which way we've gone. We don't know ourselves just how far we expect to hike this afternoon. It may be only a mile, and it may be two. But we want to tell him that we mean to go into camp, and that the setting sun will find us with our tents up, and a fire burning." Paul, while speaking, started to once more make some marks on the balance of the smooth bark, which he had himself peeled from a nearby birch. "There," he presently declared, holding the pad up, "you see how I've made the camp. The tents are set, supper cooking, and just twenty-one little marks tell that so many soldiers are around the fire, all but three who stand guard. And in beyond, the sun is going down, almost out of sight in fact. No trouble about such a simple story, eh, Jud?" "It's as plain as a book, plainer than most I've ever read. No getting mixed up in such a story. But I'm wondering what that big circle close to the camp means?" and Jud pointed as he spoke. "Oh! I'm glad you spoke. Mr. Gordon himself might well wonder what that was, for I left out the most important part. Now watch, and tell me if you can hit it," with which remark Paul made several tiny dashes with his pencil. Jud gave an exclamation of delight. "Boats--real Injun bark canoes, as sure as you live!" he observed. "And boats don't run on dry land as a rule, do they, Jud?" Paul went on. "Well, not so you could notice. That circle then, must be our lake, or pond, we ain't so sure which, yet. The story is now complete, Paul from start to finish. But sometimes it must be hard to tell things that happened." "That's where the fun comes in," Paul continued; "lots of happenings make a fellow sit up and take notice, when he tries to picture them so plainly that the other can read it right off the reel. I had a tough nut to crack this morning." "About that little adventure of Tom Betts in the river," interrupted Jud. "Tell me how you did it. A crooked little mark would show the river; but I'm blessed if I can see how you made out the drowning act, and the rescue." "I'll tell you how I did it," Paul went on; "and when Mr. Gordon comes we'll find out if he understood my letter, or thought it meant something else. I'm only a beginner in this business, you know, and expect to improve, for I see where we can have lots of fun out of it." "But the letter?" said Jud, impatiently. "In the river I had several of the boy scouts bathing. All had their hands down but one, whose arms were up over his head. That told of his being in danger. Then on the bank I showed a ring around two, one on the ground. Just beyond these, two were moving off, arm in arm. That ought to tell him that the drowned boy recovered. And when the company formed to go on the road I was _very_ particular to have the exact twenty-one in line. How's that?" "Great," cried Jud, excitedly; "you've got me head over ears in this picture writing business, and I'm going to study it up. There's a book home that has a lot about it. Me to swallow the same when we get back. And while we're up here I'm going to get you and our scoutmaster to teach me what you know." "All right," laughed Paul, getting up. "Now notice that I stick this where he will be sure to see it. And perhaps we'd better be on the hike once more, because we don't know what we've got ahead of us. Number Three, give the call to break camp!" CHAPTER XX CAMP SURPRISE On the march the scouts had more than a few times amused themselves by practicing some of the many maneuvres they had learned. For instance, a detail was left with signal flags on a prominent knoll; and later on, when the main company had arrived at a certain point half a mile further along the road, a series of communications would be exchanged between the two detachments. As a record of all such wigwagging was kept, it would be easy to learn just how proficient they had become in manipulating the various colored flags, or in making the many different arm gestures that conveyed the meaning of the intended message. Among their supplies they also carried a complete telegraph equipment. After they were finally located in a definite camp it was intended to have one or more stations, and both send and receive messages from time to time. Thus, in these and many more genuinely interesting as well as instructive ways, they expected to make their tour a most profitable one. Some of the boys became quite sober as they saw the grand view of the plateau and valley blotted out after leaving the noon camp. They brightened up after a while, however, since there were dozens of things to draw their attention, and arouse their boyish interest. Dobbin had all he could do to pull the wagon over the rough road, so full of stones, and so overgrown had it become. Still, Paul noticed as he went along, that those marks of the wheels, and the prints of a horse's hoofs showed, telling that the vehicle occupied by the stranger, whom Joe Clausin seemed to have recognized, must have kept on this way. They were now surrounded by the very wildest kind of scenery. It looked as though a tremendous convulsion of Nature must have occurred at some remote age; for giant rocks were piled up in great heaps on every hand, many of them covered with creeping vines. Trees grew in crevices, and wherever they could lodge. "Whew! ain't this the toughest place ever, though?" remarked William, as he gaped around him at the frowning heights, and the little precipices that the road skirted. "It's just what they told us, though, even if we wouldn't believe what we heard," declared Wallace, who was deeply interested in the big ferns that cropped up, and dozens of other things most boys would never have noticed. Several were kept busy snapping off photographs. "Better go slow with that, fellows," warned Paul; "because we expect to be here ten days or so, and you'll find lots of chances to get action in your pictures, with this grand scenery for a background. And the one whose films run out will wish he'd been more careful. I'd advise that you don't take too many duplicates; because, you see, good pictures can be passed around to all, and the greater variety we have the better." After that the camera brigade, taking warning, got together, and formed a set of rules that would prevent waste. It was a point worth noting. When they had been moving in and out along this rough and winding road for some time, anxious glances began to be taken ahead. "Where's that fine old lake, I wonder?" grumbled one. "Perhaps there ain't anything doing," observed another lame one, as he limped heroically along in the midst of the trailing band, and tried to forget the sore feeling in his feet. "Well," quoth William, with one of his famous grins, "it wouldn't be the first time we'd been stung; and I guess it won't be the last. But don't holler before you're hurt, fellows; because there's water ahead I reckon, if the signs don't lie." "How d'ye know, old wiseacre?" demanded Bob Tice, of the second patrol; for at the time they were marching without the least semblance of order. William struck one of his amusing attitudes, and slapped himself on the chest, as much as to say: "Look at me, and take pattern, because I'm the one who knows this game from Alpha to Omega, the beginning and the end!" "Hark! and I'll give you a pointer, fellows. A true scout must always keep his eyes wide open. No sleepy fellow can ever make a howling success of this business. I leave it to Paul here, if that ain't the truth?" and William turned to the other, who was smiling as though he suspected what had happened to meet the eyes of the speaker. "That," said Paul, "is one of our beliefs, sure enough. A scout must always be on the alert, or else he may miss many things that would give him valuable information. William, suppose you go on and spin your yarn in your own way. I saw what you did; but I'm glad I didn't cut in. Strike up, now, and then we'll move on again, for Dobbin is coming yonder." "Yes," remarked the party addressed, "and if you notice the old duffer you can see that he's showing more animation than he's exhibited this hour back. It ain't that Curley's been using the whip either, for that don't hurt Dobbin any, his hide is so thick. He smells water in the air, fellows, that's what!" "Was that what you noticed?" demanded Tom Betts, who seemed to have fully recovered from his accident of the morning. "Not much. It's only what my dad would call corroborative evidence, or proof," remarked William; whose father, although a blacksmith, was considered one of the best read men in Stanhope, and able to argue with Judge Holt on legal matters. "What did you see, then? Don't bait us so, William. Did you get a squint of the pond through the trees? Funny nobody else saw it then," grumbled Jud. "Y-y-yes, for g-g-goodness sake t-t-tell us before we d-d-drop dead!" cried Bluff, who always stuttered worse when excited. "I just happened to be looking up over the tops of that big clump of trees ahead when I saw a bird; and he told me there was water below," remarked William, calmly. "I didn't hear a single squawk," remarked Andy Flinn, warmly; "and even if I had, d'ye expect me to belave that ye understand the birrd language. Oh! come off. Be aisy with us, and roll your hoop, William!" "Oh!" William blazed up, "you doubt my word, but that bird told me just as plain as words could there was water below. He was circling up, so as to get above the trees, and put for his nest. And, fellows, when I tell you it was a fish-hawk, with his dinner in his claws, you can understand what I guessed right then and there." "Hurrah! for William! He's our keen-eyes! Nothing escapes his eagle vision. He's all to the good!" came the shouts, amid more or less laughter. And after that there was no holding the eager scouts in. It seemed as though they could themselves scent the water, just as the wise old Dobbin had; for helter-skelter the entire troop started to make a wild dash ahead. Even the cripples forgot to limp, and stifled their groans; for they surprised themselves by their ability to sprint with the rest. The first to round the clump of rocks and scrub gave a shout that echoed from the adjacent mountain side; while, he waved his hat above his head to indicate his delight. As the others skirted the obstruction they too gave way to enthusiasm, and the cheers that rolled forth must have startled the hawks, and wearers of fur in this remote region, since they could never before have heard a genuine boyish whoop. There was a lake before them, as wild looking a body of clear water as any one could ever expect to find, even in the Adirondacks. Indeed, Paul, and several others, who had been around more or less, declared that they had never before looked on so desolate a picture. Nowhere was there the slightest sign of human habitation. And upon the lonely sheet of water not a solitary craft of any description could be discovered. So far as they could see the Banner Boy Scouts owned the whole region! "Alabama! here we rest!" chorused the whole troop, gleefully, as they started on a run for the near shore of the lake. "Don't go far away, any fellow," warned Paul, knowing the weakness of boys when new and novel scenes beckon them on. He had good reason to speak in this manner; for judging from the appearance of the country by which the lake was surrounded, any fellow who was unlucky enough to get lost, before he secured his bearings, might have a serious time of it. Of course the boys had been taught various ways of telling the four points of the compass. Sun, moon and stars could be depended on when visible. On a cloudy day or night the bark of the trees would serve as a guide; since the green, mossy side was almost invariably toward the north. Besides, Paul knew how to make a compass out of his watch, though he generally carried a real magnetic needle in his pocket for emergencies. He and Wallace, accompanied by Jack, set to work looking the ground over, with the idea of picking out the best place suitable for a camp. "It must be not far from the lake, because we want this nice view," said Paul. "Then it ought to slope just a little, so as to drain, in case of a heavy rain storm. We don't want to be under any of those big trees either; and you can see why, if you notice what happened to one of them long ago." "Yes, that's so," declared Jack; "for a bolt of lightning did knock that one down, sure as you're born. How's this place, Paul?" A selection was presently made that answered the purpose. Paul was of the opinion that it would be open to the sweep of the western wind in case of a violent wind storm; but then they hoped nothing of the sort would visit them while up here in camp. Once the word was given, and every boy got busy. Tents were pitched with rapidity, and having had one rude experience every fellow made sure that his pins were driven deep into the ground. In some places where this was not possible they made use of obliging rocks to hold the canvas snugly down. The flag pole was cut, and planted under Paul's directions; and soon Old Glory floated proudly in the breeze, with their prize banner just below it. "What shall we call the camp?" went up the cry. "We had Camp Misery and Camp Rescue; what's the objection to calling this Camp Surprise?" asked Wallace, quickly. "That's a good name! Camp Surprise it is!" shouted several in chorus; and as such the permanent camp went down in the log book of every scout. CHAPTER XXI THE LIGHT ON THE MOUNTAIN "Paul, we're not alone up here after all!" It was Jack who made this remark. He had been skirmishing around later in the afternoon; and came upon the other as Paul was standing at the edge of the lake, looking out upon its surface, to where some ducks floated. "Well, I never believed we did own the place," returned the patrol leader, with a smile. "But what's happened to give you that idea, Jack?" "Just by chance," his chum went on, "I saw something moving away up on the side of the mountain. At first I thought it might be some sort of animal; but as I watched I made sure it was human, either a boy or man. And whoever he was he kept track on what we were doing down here. I could see him crane his neck to look, lots of times." "But you couldn't recognize him?" asked Paul. "It was pretty far, and there's a sort of haze around us just now. Sometimes I thought I knew him, and then I made up my mind I didn't," came the reply. "Is he still there, Jack?" "Yes, but don't look up," said his chum, quickly. "We are in too plain sight here. I thought perhaps you might step into the tent and get our field glasses. Then we could slip away, and take a good look on the sly. How's that suit you?" "All right. Meet me at the place where you saw him. Where was that, Jack?" "See that bunch of hemlocks over yonder? I happened to be partly sheltered back of that when I looked up. I'll wait for you there," and Jack moved off. Two minutes later Paul joined him. He had the field glasses tucked under his khaki coat, not wishing to attract the attention of the others, lest they might express a wish to trail along, and so spoil things. "Now, tell me where to look," he observed, as he suited the glasses to his eyes, knowing just how far they should be opened to give the best results. Jack pointed carefully upward. "He's there yet, because I saw him move while I waited for you, Paul," he said, in an eager tone. "I've got him," answered the scout leader, as his hands became rigid. After a brief look he lowered the glasses. "Well, who is it?" demanded Jack. For answer his chum offered him the glasses; and presently Jack had his eyes glued to the smaller end. When he lowered them a short time later his eyes met those of his chum. Both of them laughed, as though they had exchanged their views in that glance. "Ted Slavin?" said Paul. "Just as sure as fate," went on Jack; "and much interested in our doings. That of course means trouble for us at any time. I believe all those fellows have come up here for is to pick quarrels with us. But Mr. Gordon will know how to handle them when he gets here." "Meanwhile," said Paul, seriously, "we must be on our guard against a sudden attack. We don't want the name of our camp to mean that we were taken unawares. We'll have things fixed so the boot will be on the other foot, if they try to surprise us." When they looked again, the figure had vanished from that point high up among the rocks. Evidently Ted, having seen all he wished, had gone to tell his cronies the story. "Where d'ye think they've located; because never a tent did they bring along?" Jack was asking as they returned to camp. "Oh! up here that wouldn't matter much. Looks like there might be hundreds of caves of all sizes among these piled-up rocks. And a cave is a pretty good hide-out sometimes. I've spent lots of nights in one." The afternoon sun had vanished behind another elevation that lay to the west; but night was slow in coming, since these were some of the longest days of the year. Paul could not help noticing that Joe Clausin seemed worried once more. He kept by himself a good bit of the time, and his brow was clouded. Then again, he had taken to looking suspiciously about, here and there, up the steep mountainside, and even along the dimly-defined road that skirted the lake. It was no mystery to Paul, so far as understanding what Joe might be worrying about went. "That man with the rig who passed our noon camp on the road--Joe knows he's up here somewhere, and perhaps he wants to meet up with him--I wonder why?" was the way the young scoutmaster ran the thing over in his active mind. In one way it did not concern him, because Joe had not asked for his assistance; but then again it certainly interested Paul. He believed that there was some odd connection between the loss of those papers contained in the tin box, and the presence of that stranger in the region of Rattlesnake Mountain. Again, as before, the pressure of many other things caused him to push all concern about the mysterious stranger from his thoughts. When supper had been cooked and the scouts sat around enjoying its delights, the shadows of coming night told that another period of sentry duty was at hand. "No Mr. Gordon to-night, I reckon," ventured Jud Elderkin, as he sat with his tin plate upon his knees, and scooped up the luscious Boston baked beans with his fork; while a steaming tin cup of mild coffee stood beside him. Most of the boys were not used to this appetizing drink for supper; and a few of them did not take it, being satisfied with cold water; but Paul had considered the matter, and was of the opinion that a little change from the regular programme of home life would not hurt these hardy chaps, especially as they were so tired that nothing could keep them awake, once they lay down. "I guess you're right, Jud," remarked Paul, "and I'm sorry too." "Oh! well, we're not worrying," declared Jud, looking around at the ring of bright faces, and nodding, "are we, fellows?" "Mr. Gordon's all right, and a mighty fine gentleman; but we don't really need him," declared one, promptly. "Not so you could notice it, while we've got such smart guides as Paul and Wallace along," declared Tom Betts. "D-d-don't you g-g-go to forgetting W-w-william here; he's t-t-turned out just a w-w-wonder, you know!" burst out Bluff, vigorously waving his knife and fork. "It's William the Discoverer after this, fellows; for you know he proved that this bully old lake was here, long before any of us had set eyes on it!" argued another scout. "Joking aside, boys," remarked Paul, earnestly, "I hope a few more of you will take a pattern from the way William learned that fact. If you only keep your eyes about you all the time, there are dozens of things just as interesting that you can read in the plain signs. And the deeper you dig into the Indian way of knowing things the better you'll like it. Please fill up my platter again, William, if there's enough to go around a second time. You're getting better as a cook every day you live." As always, the utmost good cheer existed around the rude mess table which had been constructed by several amateur carpenters, while the rest were doing other necessary things. It was meant to go under the big "round-top," as the scouts came to call one of the extra canvas spreads; and could be moved to the open at pleasure, during good weather. "Oh! I think he's a bum chef, and ought to get bounced!" Every one stared at Joe Clausin as these words appeared to proceed from his mouth, and no one looked more surprised than Joe himself. "If I've just got to eat his messes, you'll have to carry me back to good old Stanhope, and mother's cookin', that's what!" Joe persisted in saying, though no one saw his lips move. "Hey, what d'ye think of that, fellows?" exclaimed William, trying to look indignant. "Here I've been breaking my back trying to get up the right kind of grub for the patrol, and this ungrateful member kicks me when I ain't looking!" "But I never----" started Joe, when he was cut short again. "Now don't you go to saying you didn't mean anything, because the boys heard you speak right out in meetin'!" exclaimed William, getting up, and throwing his hands out as though he meant to wash them of the whole business. "But William," the accused boy went on, eagerly, "didn't I eat more'n any one else? I declare I never said your cooking was off color. It's really decent, and I'm ready to tackle anything you try. Somebody's joshing us--somebody's putting the words in my mouth." "It's Bobolink changing his voice," called out Paul, laughingly. "Sure it is!" cried William; "look at his grinning there, for all he makes out to be so innocent. He's up to his old tricks again, fellows; he's practicing that game of ventriloquism on us, that's what." Whereupon Joe made a dash for the author of his humiliation; but Bobolink had been expecting such a move, and was prepared to sprint out of the danger zone. It was in this spirit of merriment that they finished their supper. If any of the scouts began to feel a homesick sensation creeping over them, they were manly enough to hide it from the eyes of their comrades. And later on, when the dishes had been washed systematically, and everything arranged for the night, Paul and Jack sat together watching the stirring scene. The campfire glowed and snapped, boyish laughter and small talk abounded, and beyond the confines of the camp the sentries walked their beats. "Looks good to me, eh, Jack?" remarked the weary acting scoutmaster. "Same here," declared his chum, warmly; "though I guess you'll be right glad when Mr. Gordon comes. To-morrow you said we would have some tests of endurance, whether he is on hand or not. I think that is a good idea. But look yonder, Paul. Isn't that a moving light away up on the side of Rattlesnake Mountain?" And Paul, turning quickly in the direction indicated, was thrilled to discover once more the phantom jack-o-lantern flickering light that had mystified him on that other occasion. This time Wallace could not have said it seemed to be made by a man lighting his pipe, for it was too steady. It moved to and fro, now clear, and again dim. Then even while the two boys stared, it suddenly vanished from sight. CHAPTER XXII THE NIGHT ALARM "It's gone!" exclaimed Jack, drawing a long breath. "Seems like it," remarked Paul, with a trace of excitement in his usually steady voice; for that strange moving light mystified him. "What do you suppose it could be?" asked his chum, relying as always upon the ability of Paul to solve the puzzles. "Oh! well, that isn't hard to guess," returned the scout leader. "Somebody was moving about with a lantern, as sure as you live. The question that bothers me is to say who the fellow can be." "There's Ted and his squad; we happen to know they're roaming around these regions somewhere," suggested Jack, quickly. "That's true," said Paul, thoughtfully; "and it may be one of that crowd; but somehow I doubt it. In the first place I don't believe they were smart enough to fetch even a lantern along. You know they brag about how they can go into the woods with only a hatchet and a few cooking things, and enjoy life. But we didn't come up here to endure things." "Not much," declared Jack; "we want all the comforts of a well managed camp. And in the line of fun we've got a string of things laid out that will keep us doing stunts every hour of the time. But if not Ted's toadies, then who could be wandering about up there? Can you give a guess, Paul?" Paul could; but then he debated with himself whether he ought to take Jack fully into his confidence. He decided that as they had been chums so long, and shared each other's confidences, he ought to speak. Besides, Joe had shown no intention of confiding anything in him. So in low tones he told about the queer actions of Joe Clausin when that man in the vehicle had gone by; and the few words he had heard the boy scout mutter. After that he related the incident of his interview with Joe. "Say, that is mighty funny," observed Jack, after he had listened to the whole story. "Don't you think the same as I do, and that Joe recognized that man?" "It looks that way to me. And he seemed to guess something that was anything but pleasant to him," replied his chum. "Speak plainly, Jack," said Paul, eagerly, catching the other's eye, "you mean that he must have connected the presence of that man here with the robbery of his father the other night? Is that it?" "I reckon that was what flashed into Joe's mind," remarked Jack; "he thought this man was at the other side of the world, he said, did he? Well, the very fact that he had turned up here at such a time looks mighty suspicious. Paul, what if we happened to run across him while we were in camp here; wouldn't it be a great thing if we found that old tin box for Mr. Clausin?" "I was thinking about something. Did you happen to get a good look at the face of that man as he drove past?" asked the scout leader, gravely. "Well, no, I didn't, to tell the truth. I happened to be doing something just then, and when I looked up I only saw his back. But what of it?" asked Jack, knowing that his comrade would not speak in this way without a motive. "I did, and it's been bothering me ever since," came the reply. "How was that? Did you know him?" demanded Jack. "I seemed to see something familiar about him, and yet I couldn't just get hold of it. And Jack, just while we were talking it over, and I was telling you about what Joe said to me in his confusion, it flashed over me who he made me think of." "Who was that?" demanded his chum. "Joe!" answered Paul, quietly. Of course Jack was stirred deeply when he heard that. "Oh! I wonder what it can mean?" he exclaimed. "I've known Joe for more than five years now, and so far I've never heard that he had a brother. You know they came to Stanhope from down in Jersey somewhere. Do you really think it might be so? This fellow, who was, as he believed at the other side of the world, in China or the Philippines perhaps, may have come home to rob his father!" "Hold on," laughed Paul; "you're getting too far ahead, old hoss! Don't jump at things that way. This man looked too old to be any brother of Joe's. He might be an uncle, though. Uncles sometimes go bad, I guess, and do things that make their relatives ashamed of them. Suppose we leave it at that, and wait to see if we happen to learn anything more." "But Joe knows," persisted Jack, doggedly. "That's right," replied Paul, seriously; "but don't forget that it's his secret, and as true scouts we've no business to go prying into his affairs unless he asks our help. Forget it all for a while, and let's talk about what we have laid out for to-morrow. I do hope Mr. Gordon shows up. I wonder if he can read the Indian talk I left in each place we stopped." They were soon deep in the various interesting features of the programme as mapped out for the next day. Having now settled into what they expected would be the permanent camp of the tour, the boys were wild to get down to business, and show their efficiency in the various lines which they favored. "Listen to 'em gabble like a pack of old women," laughed Jack, as the friendly argument about the crackling fire grew more heated. "Bob Tice is demanding why they didn't think to bring a portable dark room along, so he could develop his films in the daytime," said Paul, after listening a minute; "and Jud is explaining to the novice that with his new film tank there's no need of any such thing, for he can do all that work right in the tent at noon." Many other subjects were discussed about that blazing fire, and much information passed around. Strict discipline was maintained in camp, just as though the scoutmaster himself were present to enforce it. At the hour appointed, Bobolink tooted his bugle, and immediate preparations for retiring commenced. Twenty minutes later taps sounded, and every light had to go out save the one fire that occupied the centre of the camp. Three sentries paced to and fro, and they had been given to understand that any failure to keep constant watch would meet with prompt punishment. They knew that Paul meant to enforce his orders; and suspecting that he might creep out under the rear of his tent to make a secret rounds, they were one and all determined that nothing should cause them to fail in their duties. Paul was asleep in his tent with two of his mates, when something suddenly awoke him. He sat up to listen, and again heard the sound. It was a dull thud, as of a hard object falling to the ground. Then came a distinct splash in the nearby lake. "What in goodness can it be?" he thought, as he listened for a repetition of the strange sounds. "Hello! what's going on, Paul?" Jack asked at that moment, raising his head as if he too had been awakened by the several thumps, and wondered what his chum was doing sitting up. "That's what I'm trying to guess," replied Paul, quietly. "Sounds as if it was hailing to beat the band!" exclaimed Jack, as a series of continuous thumps came. Just then some one burst in at the open flap of the tent. It proved to be Bluff Shipley, who had been appointed sentry from the Red Fox Patrol. "Paul, c-c-come out here, q-q-quick!" he cried, in considerable excitement; and as this condition was always bad for the poor fellow's twisted tongue, he began to "fall all over himself," as Jack expressed it, when he attempted to go on and explain what had happened. In the jumble, however, Paul caught something that gave him the clue he wanted--"Ted Slavin" and "rocks!" He quickly got inside some clothes, not even waiting in his hurry to remove his pajamas. When he crawled out of the tent he found a number of the scouts had been aroused. Their angry shouts were heard on every hand; for a shower of stones was descending upon the camp from some point further up the abrupt side of the mountain. "It's that Slavin crowd, as usual!" cried Jud, furiously, rubbing his arm where he had been struck. "We've just _got_ to get after them with a hot stick!" exclaimed Wallace, who was usually the warmest advocate of peace in the troop; but this constant and vicious annoyance on the part of their rivals was proving too much for even his temper. "Come on, fellows; us to the attack!" called Bobolink, with his accustomed vim; "this is the limit, and we've just got to flag 'em!" All discipline was forgotten in the excitement of the moment. Nor did Paul try to show his authority. He was very nearly as indignant as any of them; and had they been able to locate the enemy, possibly there might have ensued a scramble that would hardly have been to the credit of the well known peaceful principles of the scouts. But the stone throwing seemed to cease about the time the scouts began to climb the side of the rocky elevation. Doubtless Ted and his allies knew that it would be dangerous for them to remain longer; and having stirred up a hornets' nest below, they probably crept away over a path they had mapped out, which would lead to their cave camp. The boys came back in bunches of twos and threes presently, heated with their useless search, and breathing out all sorts of threats against the disturbers of their peace. On the next night Paul meant to have a vidette posted on the mountain side, whose one particular duty would be to look out for prowlers. There was no further alarm that night. Possibly Ted and his crowd believed that it would not be wise to go in too strongly for these things. And so another day dawned, that was fated to be full of strenuous doings between sunrise and sunset. CHAPTER XXIII WHAT THE EYES OF A SCOUT MAY SEE "What damage was done last night?" asked Jack, as he and Paul walked around the camp, while the cooks of the several patrols were engaged in getting breakfast over fires built after that clever fashion, partly in holes in the ground. "Well," replied his chum, "outside of Jud's bruised arm that will handicap him a bit in his work; and one hole through the fly that serves as our mess tent; I haven't been able to find anything. But I picked up several stones that must have come down, and they were big enough to hurt if they had hit any of us." "What ought we to do?" asked Jack. "For one I think we've just got to change our way of handling those fellows. The more we try to argue, and hold out the olive branch, the worse they get. I hate to tell the boys we've reached the end of the rope; but what else is left?" and Paul, as he spoke, shook his head, and drew a long breath. "Oh! nothing but give tit for tat," returned Jack, without a pause, as if his mind had long been made up. "Why, even a Quaker will fight if forced to defend his honor; or some bully attacks his family. They say a worm will turn; which you mustn't take to mean that we are grubs." "Well," declared Paul, "to-night we'll have a watch set, and if they try that sort of thing again, perhaps they'll find two can play at a bombardment." The welcome call to breakfast broke in on their dialogue; and being possessed of the ordinary boy's appetite, both Paul and his chum were not at all backward about dropping into their places around the rude table. Of course pretty much all the talk during the meal was about the unprovoked and cowardly attack of the preceding night. Every time a boy cast his eyes upward, and saw the sky through the ragged hole in the canvas cover, he was noticed to grit his teeth, and look angry. But Paul assured them that he had a plan ready whereby they could put a stop to this rough treatment. Knowing him as they did, the scouts felt sure he had been driven to the limit of his forbearance. Having gone as far as their code called for in the effort to keep the peace, they would certainly be justified in taking the law into their own hands from this time forth. "Forget it all until night comes, fellows," said Paul, finally, when they had talked the subject threadbare. "Meanwhile don't think you're going to get any sort of a nap to-day. There will be something doing every minute of the time from now up to supper call. And to begin with, let the dishwashers get busy right away, so as to clear the decks for action." As every one had satisfied his appetite, and just then cared little whether there was ever such a thing as eating again, they were not sorry to leave the mess tent. The camp was quickly a scene of animation. Some fellows were busy with cameras, seeking enticing subjects for views that would do them credit when the results of the great hike were examined by a committee later on. Others set about making preparations for the various duties to which they had been assigned. Paul kept his finger on the pulse of everything that took place. He sent one squad along the shore of the lake to try the fishing. Another was engaged in forming a rude raft so that they could have something on which to paddle around from time to time. Still another group followed Paul and Wallace to hunt for signs of the raccoons they had heard during the preceding night. Each boy of the bunch was expected to jot down in his note-book the various interesting things they came across as they tramped. Paul gave a few hints; but he wanted them to think it out for themselves. The most observing would make mention of dozens of things that might never attract the eye of the novice in woodcraft. He would state the species of trees he noticed on either hand; the formation of the rocks, the result perhaps of a former hurricane that leveled many old trees, and the direction which it must have passed along over this country; he would find a multitude of things to mention in the sap-sucker that tapped the dead limb of a tree; the wise crow that cawed at them from a distance; the flashing bluejay that kept just ahead of them; the red squirrel and the little chipmunks that scurried over the ground, to watch with bright eyes from the shelter of some tree, or hummock of up-tilted stones. There was absolutely no limit to the list of interesting subjects that an observing lad could find to fill pages upon pages in his memorandum book. After he had returned home again how pleasant it would be to read anew these notes, and realize that he could not be termed blind when he passed along the trail. And then the tracks of the little woods animals, how interesting it was to hunt for them close to the border of the water, where they could be plainly seen in the soft mud. At first one seemed pretty much like another to the greenhorns; but either Paul or Wallace, who had studied these things before, pointed out the difference; and after that lesson the other fellows could easily tell the tracks of a raccoon from those of a mink or a 'possum, for they found them all. After that Paul took pains to explain just how differently the imprint of a dog's or a cat's foot looked when compared with those of the wild woods folks. These two were so much alike that Bobolink remarked upon the fact. "How can you tell them apart, Paul?" he asked, looking at the prints made by the scout leader in the mud. "That's easy," replied Paul, "if you notice that the dog leaves the track of his nails every time; while puss, well, she sheathes her claws while she walks, keeping them sharp for business when she sights a sparrow or a young rabbit." "But look here, what's this funny track here? Some baby must have put its hand down in the mud; but that's silly, of course. Whatever made these, Paul?" asked Philip Towne, pointing ahead to a spot they had as yet not visited. Paul took one look, and smiled. He turned to Wallace, who nodded instantly. "A muskrat made those tracks, boys," observed Paul; "you see he leaves marks entirely unlike any others we've seen. And here is where our friend, Mr. Crow, came down from his perch where he's been scolding us so long. He wanted a drink perhaps; or expected to pick up a breakfast along the edge of the water, from insects that have been washed ashore." All these things were very attractive to the boys. "This thing gets better and better the deeper you climb into it," declared Bobolink, as he wrote away for dear life, jotting down all he could remember of what he had heard. Some of the boys even made rude but effective diagrams of the various tracks, so that they would have the proof to show if ever a dispute arose concerning the difference between the several species. Many other things did Paul and Wallace bring to their attention. Why, it seemed as though one had only to turn around up on the side of Rattlesnake Mountain to discover new and wonderful facts that these boys never dreamed of before. "Where do you suppose this old pile of rocks ever got its name, Paul?" asked one of the scouts, as he looked up at the frowning crest far above. "I really don't know," replied Paul; "I took the trouble to ask a number of people too, who have lived around Stanhope for scores of years, and they couldn't tell me; they said it had always gone by that name, and supposed that once it was a regular rattlesnake den." "Why, yes," interrupted Jud Elderkin; "one man told me he remembered when there was a queer chap lived up here, a cripple too, who in those days used to put in all his time hunting rattlesnakes for their skins, which were used to make pocketbooks and slippers and belts out of; and he sold the oil, too." "Oil?" exclaimed Bobolink, "now, what do you mean by that? Do they use it for lamps, or watches, like they do porpoise oil?" "How about that, Wallace?" asked Paul, seeing that the reader of the Carberry Twins gave evidence of possessing knowledge along those lines. "Good for rheumatism, they say," observed Wallace; "athletes also use it to limber up their limbs. It has a commercial value. Some men make a business of hunting rattlesnakes pretty much all the year." "Excuse me from the job then," said Bobolink, making a wry face. "Ugh! I hate the sight of a snake! Say, you don't think there might be a little bunch of the nasty scaly monsters left over from the old cripple's hunt, do you, Paul?" "I hope we won't run across any," returned the patrol leader, soberly; "for it's no fun getting struck by the fangs of a rattlesnake. I've never had that bad luck, and I give you my word I'm not hankering after an experience, either." "But then it might happen to one of us," retorted Bobolink; "and as a wise general I hope you've thought of bringing a gallon or two of strong drink along. That seems to be the only thing that can save a poor fellow when he's been jabbed by one of these twisters; anyhow, that's what I've read about it." "You're away off then, Bobolink," laughed Paul; "for we haven't a drop of liquor in camp. There's a better way to counteract a snake bite; and I intend telling the whole troop when we gather at lunch to-day, as well as distribute some little packets I made up, under my father's directions." "But go on," demanded Jud, "now that you've said so much. If a rattlesnake jumped out of those bushes there, and gave me a jab on the leg, how ought I go about it to keep from keeling over? I want to know, and I ain't from Missouri, either!" "Well," Paul started to say, "in the first place you ought to know that no rattlesnake ever jumps out at anybody. At the slightest sign of danger he coils up, and sounds his policeman's rattle, which is just as near like the buzzing of a big locust as you can get it." "Say, that's why they call a policeman's club his locust, ain't it?" interrupted Bobolink; at which Paul smiled and nodded. "If you should get excited on hearing this warning, and rush straight at the snake, not seeing him, why he'd get you. The first thing to do is to free your leg from all clothing, if he struck you, and tie a bandage tight above the mark where his fangs hit. Then get down yourself, or if you have a chum along, and you always will up here, according to the orders to hunt in pairs, have him suck the wound as hard as he can, spitting out the poison." "Good gracious!" cried Bobolink, "but won't he get the dope instead of you, then?" "It would never hurt him," answered Paul, quickly, "unless he happens to have a cut about his mouth. If that is the case he must never try to suck a snake bite. Hot water will help nearly as well as sucking. Then use some of the strong ammonia that is in a little bottle, to burn the wound. Never mind the pain, for your life is in danger. Another bottle holds some aromatic spirits of ammonia, which can be taken inwardly, as it is useful to keep up the strength and nerve of the wounded fellow." "Is that all?" asked the interested Jud. "Pretty much all," Paul went on. "Don't keep on the tight cord or bandage more than an hour, for it stops circulation, and might bring on mortification, father says. Ease up on it for a bit. The arm will sting like fun, but stand it. If the patient shows signs of collapse, tighten the cord again for a time. Do this several times until you can take the cord off for good." "Oh! I see," said Bobolink; "by that time the poor chap will either be recovered or else have kicked the bucket. But I do hope none of us get mixed up with one of that old cripple hunter's left-overs. I'm going to keep my eyes about all the while." "That's a good idea," declared Paul, laughing; "and every fellow ought to follow suit. But let's go back to the camp now, boys. We've had about as much as anybody can cram into their head at one time." "Here, Paul, please take a look at these marks, and tell me what sort of an animal made 'em!" called out Jud, who had been bending over, half on his knees, as if deeply interested in what he had found. All of them hurried to the spot. "Perhaps he's found the spoor of a runaway elephant!" suggested Bobolink, wickedly, with that passing circus in mind. "More'n likely," observed Philip Towne; "it's a wildcat that's been prowling around the camp. Once, when I crawled out to take my watch, I thought I saw a pair of yellow eyes staring at me over the edge of that little cliff back of the tents." Paul made no remark. He was himself bending over now, and looking at the ground just where Jud pointed. Those who were watching him saw Paul start, and look closer. "It must be a lynx; or perhaps a regular old panther has come down here from the North Woods," said Bobolink, really beginning to believe such a thing might be so. "Hardly," remarked Paul; "but all the same it may mean trouble for us. You can see that these tracks were made by a man, for he had a foot much longer than any of the scouts; and boys, I'm afraid he's been hanging around our camp for some purpose!" CHAPTER XXIV THE STRANGEST FISHING EVER KNOWN "A man!" echoed Wallace, also looking grave; and even while speaking he turned his head to stare upward toward that grim cap of old Rattlesnake Mountain that hung so high above them. Perhaps Wallace had seen that will-o'-the-wisp light far up the side of the rocky steep on the preceding night, as well as Paul and Jack. He may have been pondering over it since, though neglecting to speak to the patrol leader. "Well," said Bobolink, with a relieved look, "I'd rather have a two-legged man wandering around our camp than a four-legged tiger-cat, any day." "Of course you would," observed Jack, drily, "but think how awful it would be if a four-legged man was spying on us!" Bobolink only snorted at this thrust. It was not often the other fellows had a chance to give him a sly dig; and that was why Jack could not resist the temptation, even while Paul was looking so worried. "I think we had better run this trail out a bit, fellows," remarked the patrol leader; "and see what he was after. It seems to have come from along the shore of the lake, and struck up the rise about here. What say, Wallace?" "I'm with you all right," came the immediate reply from the one addressed; "It will give us some exercise, and experience; because once he strikes the rocks we'll have to be pretty smart not to lose him." Accordingly they all bent their heads low over the spot where that plain print of the boot was to be seen. "Say, do you know what this makes me think of?" demanded Bobolink. "Not elephants, panthers, or two-legged men, of course!" chuckled Jack. "Oh! rats!" expostulated his fellow scout. "Come off your perch, Jack, and talk sense. You make me think of an old Polly, just able to repeat things over and over. But to see us all down on our knees staring at that trail made me remember the alarm of poor old Robinson Crusoe when he found the footprint of the cannibal on his island." "Well, the comparison isn't so bad--for you, Bobolink," observed Jack; "because while we haven't got an island that we can call our own, we seemed to be the only campers on this lake; and to discover that there is another fellow on the spot ready to dispute our claim makes us feel that we've been taken in and done for. But there goes Paul." The scout leader was indeed moving off. Still bending low, and making positive of every step, he kept advancing slowly but steadily. When there was the least doubt he asked Wallace for his opinion; for two heads sometimes prove better than one. Presently they came to where the rocks began to stand out. Here the difficulties increased at a surprising rate, for the impressions were very faint indeed. Still Paul eagerly continued his labor, because there was a fascination about it for him. He dearly loved to solve any puzzle, no matter how bewildering; and in these dimly defined traces of a man's upward progress he found that he had a problem worthy of his very best efforts. Sometimes the trail seemed utterly to have vanished. Indeed, Jud and Bobolink again and again declared that it was useless trying to pursue it any further. But Paul would not give up, and he had a good backer in Wallace. This time they would find a broken twig that had given way under pressure. Then again it would be a stone overturned that caught their eye. And a little later the proof of their reasoning was shown in a clear imprint of the foot in a soft patch of earth. Then the others would exchange glances of wonder, almost awe, and shake their heads, as though they were of the opinion that such work was bordering on magic. But Paul only used common-sense in his trailing, calling to his aid all that he had ever read, heard or seen of the art. "Hey, we're right above the camp, fellows!" exclaimed Bobolink presently. Raising his head Paul saw that what his companion said was true. But he did not look surprised; for all along he had felt convinced that the unknown must be making for some spot where he could obtain a good survey of the little encampment without being observed by the sentries while walking their beats. Two minutes later the quartet found themselves on the brink of the little shelf where Philip Towne, who had given up the pursuit some time back, had, as he declared, seen a pair of yellow eyes during the night. All of them peered over. The tents were not more than twenty-five feet below. Indeed, that one which contained their supplies lay almost directly under them. The patrol leader seemed to be possessed of an idea. Perhaps it originated in certain marks which he had discovered in the thin layer of earth along the edge of the shelf. "I think I know why this party hung about the camp so long last night," Paul remarked, when he looked up; and the others hardly knew whether the expression on his face stood for amusement or chagrin. "If it was daytime when he came, I'd think he wanted to get a great picture of the outfit; but in the night, nixy," remarked Bobolink, who always had an opinion, one way or the other. Wallace himself looked puzzled. "Don't keep us strung up any longer, Paul," he pleaded. "What's your idea?" "Put out your hand, then, just back of that bush, and see what you find," and Paul pointed while speaking to a particular little scrubby plant that had evidently been partly broken down by the passage of some heavy object over it. "A string!" exclaimed Wallace, as he held it up. "Somebody been flying a kite!" ejaculated the ever resourceful Bobolink. "Suppose you pull it in," continued Paul. When Wallace had drawn about eight yards of the stout cord he gave a grunt. "Well, what did you strike?" asked Paul, smiling with confidence. "Why, hang it, if it isn't a fish hook!" cried Wallace. "Oh! the looney has been fishing here; now, what d'ye think of that?" exclaimed Bobolink, in apparent glee. Wallace, however, understood at once. He again looked over the edge. "But Paul, how could he ever get his line in under that canvas, and secure any of our grub?" he protested. "It happened unfortunately that he didn't have to. I can show you marks here on the ground that plainly outline one of our fine hams," said Paul, pointing to where he had been so closely examining the ground. "A ham! Oh! my, oh! me, don't tell me that!" cried Bobolink, making a gesture of despair; "for we're half through the other one, and it was _so_ good. How could the villain ever clap hands on our prize; tell me that, won't you Paul?" "I know, all right," said Wallace in disgust, "and I guess it was my fault too. I remember suggesting that it would be a good idea to hang the second ham from the pole William drove into the face of this little cliff about seven feet up; and they did it too, the worse luck!" "Yes," remarked Paul, drily, "and it caught the eye of this fellow, whoever he was. The temptation must have been too strong for him. Perhaps he enjoys a joke. Anyhow, he got it, after some little use of his fishline. We're out a ham, that's plain, fellows." "Think of snapping a porker's hind leg off a pole," groaned Bobolink, "and playing it, inch by inch, up here; while our gay guards walked back and forth on post, as innocent as the babes in the woods. It gets me, all right!" None of the Banner Boy Scouts looked very happy. Like many other things, a ham is never so much appreciated as when it has disappeared. "Say, you don't think, now, it could have been one of that Slavin bunch, do you?" demanded Bobolink, presently; "because I happen to know Scissors Dempsey is mighty fond of pork, every way you can fix it." "I've thought of that," said Paul, without hesitation; "but you can see the foot is an extra long one. No boy's shoe ever made that. And it's had a home-made patch on it, too. No, some man has been here, and made way with our ham." "Oh! won't it be bad for him if ever we meet the wretch!" threatened Bobolink. "Just you see what the fellows say, when they know. Only enough ham for one more meal! That's what I call tough." There was a howl indeed, when the other campers learned what had happened. All sorts of theories were advanced, and Paul laughed at some of these. "That old humpback rattlesnake oil man must have come to life again, just like Rip Van Winkle," declared Nuthin, who seemed to have heard the story somewhere; "and could you blame him for wanting ham, after sniffing the _delicious_ smells that went up from this camp last night, while William was busy?" William thereupon made his lowest bow, with his hand on his heart. "Oh! thank you!" he exclaimed, simpering; "this is too, too sudden; and I've really left the speech I prepared, at home." But while the rest were both growling and making fun over the secret visit of the unknown, Paul noticed that there was one in the party who said never a word. That was Joe Clausin. He listened to everything, without comment; but there was a puzzled look on his face, as though he could not quite understand certain facts. Paul realized that he was thinking about the man who looked like the party he knew; but who was supposed to be at the other side of the world just then. Joe believed it might have been this person who stole the ham; and yet something seemed to upset such a theory. Possibly the mention of that extra long foot, and the patched shoe, hardly agreed with his ideas. And while they were standing around, still engaged in disputing and advancing new theories, some one gave a shout. "I saw a man on a wheel just flash past that open spot back along the trail!" he cried; and immediately every eye was focussed on the spot indicated; for coming at just such a moment the news electrified the scouts. CHAPTER XXV PAUL LAYS DOWN HIS BURDEN "There! I just caught a squint of him, back of the trees!" whooped William. "And he's coming lickety-split, to beat the band, too. Oh! I hope it isn't a messenger from Stanhope to bring us any bad news!" cried Tom Betts; who had left a sick mother when he came on the trip, and whose conscience, perhaps, caused him to have a sudden fear. More than one pair of cheeks lost some of their color, in that quick spasm of alarm, following this suggestion on the part of Tom. "Listen, fellows; he's tooting his auto horn like fun! It gives me a scare for keeps!" ejaculated Philip Towne. But Paul laughed aloud. "Don't get frightened, fellows," he exclaimed, "I sure ought to know the sound of that old siren. That's my wheel; and who do you think's on it but our good scoutmaster, Mr. Gordon!" "Hurrah!" came from a dozen pairs of lips, as the boys swung their hats aloft. And this was the exciting picture that met the eyes of the scoutmaster when he burst into view around a bend, and sighted the camp on the lake shore. Mr. Gordon was a very bright young fellow, with considerable experience in training boys. He had a fair grasp of the grand possibilities of this Boy Scouts' movement, and never lost an opportunity to pick up additional information. Nor did he disdain to ask some of his scouts concerning matters they had studied, but along which lines he did not happen to be well informed. There was a grand "pow-wow," as William called it, after he came. He had to hear all that had happened since his leaving Stanhope on that unfortunate business trip. The adventures at the church on both nights were recounted by those who had taken part; and it was plain that the story lost none of its comical features in the telling. After that he heard about the grand march, the meeting with the circus, and what the scouts had done to clear up their record for the day. Then came the various things that had occurred; until at last the dismal truth about the missing ham made Mr. Gordon laugh heartily. "How did you manage with the Indian sign letters I left with you, sir?" Paul asked, when he found a chance. "Pretty well," replied the scoutmaster; "though once or twice your meaning was not quite clear. I had to use a lot of commonsense to understand whether a boy was pulled from the river, and brought around all right; or if a poor fellow had been taken with the colic, and you used a stomach pump on him. But then, as I said, my good sense told me the former must have been the case. Who was it, and is he all right again?" "I'm the victim," declared Tom Betts, promptly; "and I guess the whole show would have been broke up if Paul here hadn't yanked me out like he did." Mr. Gordon turned a look of sincere affection on Paul. He had studied the boy often, and always found something new to admire about him. Still, he knew it was not always wise to praise a lad to his face; and so he only squeezed Paul's hand. Paul was a happy fellow just then. It seemed to him that the load of responsibility had slipped from his shoulders like magic with the coming of Mr. Gordon. Now they could undertake all manner of interesting stunts; and each day would be taken up with dozens of events in which they wished to shine. Presently the fishermen made their appearance. A shout went up at sight of the glorious strings of fine trout they carried. Although they had heard the cheers of their mates, and understood that Mr. Gordon must have arrived, really they did not have the heart to break away, while the fish were feeding so savagely. "Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest!" cried Bobolink; "good-bye ham, and how d'ye do Mr. Trout. I really don't know which I like best. When I'm eating trout my thoughts go out to ham; and when I'm sitting down to a rasher of bacon I do long so for a mess of trout. But they're all to the good, fellows. Do it some more, will you?" And when William and the other cooks served the fish at noon the boys were loud in their praises. Some had suggestions to offer about the ways of cooking them; but it was noticed that half the inmates of the camp busied themselves immediately after lunch in hunting fishing tackle; and the prospect for peace among the finny tribes in that lake was small. There was no little rivalry between the trio of cooks. Usually this took the form of good-natured chaffing, and trying new dishes, in order to arouse the envy of other patrols. Bobolink always hung around to hear these discussions; but William made a great mistake when, thinking to bolster up his cause at one time, he demanded to know what the member of the Red Fox Patrol thought about it. "Huh!" grunted the wise Bobolink, "I'll tell you, if you promise not to hold it against me, and give me the poorest grub in the bunch for spite." "All right, go on," said William slowly, as though he already began to doubt the wisdom of asking his comrade's opinion; "I don't know as you c'n settle this important question at all; but I promise not to hold anything against you. Give us a straight yarn, now, Bobolink, hear!" "Well," said Bobolink, with a grin, "when I hear you learned cooks disputing about how to do this, and that, I just have to think about the blind men and the elephant, you see." "What about 'em?" demanded Nat Smith, who belonged to the third patrol, and had carried his mother's big cook book along into camp, thinking to surprise his rivals by the vast extent of his knowledge concerning cookery terms. "Oh! shucks, d'ye mean to say you never heard that story?" said Bobolink. "Well, a lot of blind men in the Far East disputed about what an elephant looked like, though nary one had ever seen the critter. So they went, one at a time, to find out. Now what d'ye think happened?" "How under the sun do we know? Get along with the yarn!" exclaimed William. "Each feller came back with a different story," went on Bobolink gravely; "the one that grabbed the tail of the elephant vowed the wonderful animal was mighty like a rope. Another says a snake, because, you see, he got hold of the swinging trunk. A third vows the elephant was like a wall, just because he slammed up against his side. And a fourth hugged his leg, and was ready to take his affidavy the famous beast was made just like a tree! Get the idea, boys?" Apparently they did, for a minute later Bobolink was seen flying for his life through the woods, with three mad cooks in full pursuit, shaking their fists after him, and threatening all sorts of vengeance. Paul and Mr. Gordon concluded to push out from shore on the big raft, and try the fishing in that style. Fortunately there was little air stirring, so that the clumsy contrivance could be readily managed. Mr. Gordon was not an expert fisherman; while Paul had had considerable experience in the art during his several Summers in Maine. He cast his flies with such skill that the scoutmaster expressed admiration, and took lessons in sending out the oiled silk line, so that the imitation flies dropped on the water softly. They cast in toward the shore, of course, and near the spot where a creek sent its waters into the lake, each of them had a strike. Paul succeeded in landing his fish, which proved to be a fair-sized specimen. Then Mr. Gordon tried again. In a short time he had a strike, and with a quick motion of the wrist succeeded in fastening the barb of the hook in the jaw of the fish. "It's a dandy too, sir!" exclaimed Paul, as he saw a flash of rainbow colors, when the big trout jumped wildly into the air, trying to break loose by falling on the line; "keep a tight pull on him, sir, and if he drags too hard let him have just a little more line. Oh! but he's a beauty." So coaching Mr. Gordon by degrees, he finally got the landing net ready; and after the prize had been played until almost exhausted it was lifted upon the raft with one swift and accurate movement. After that the fishing seemed to slacken. Though the lake was undoubtedly just teeming with fish, still they had their times for feeding, and between these nothing could induce them to take hold. Later in the day there were swimming tests started, and Mr. Gordon, who was at home in this sport, showed the boys many tricks whereby their prowess in the water might be doubled. Paul had dressed, having cut his foot a trifle while walking on the rocks. He and the scoutmaster, were standing there talking, Mr. Gordon still had on his swimming trunks. "I was just thinking, Paul," he remarked, "what a queer lake this is. Have you noticed that it seems to have no visible outlet? Possibly some of its waters manage to get to the Bushkill because there are several streams running in; but where does it flow out?" "Why, yes," returned Paul, "I did notice that. I suppose there must be an outlet in the bottom of the lake somewhere." "Just what I had concluded; and it would stand to reason that such a hole might be somewhere near here. I'm a little anxious, because I've had an experience myself with such a sucker-hole, and came near losing my life in one. I managed to get hold of rocks on the bottom, and clawed my way outside the terrible suction that was drawing me steadily in toward the centre." "Why, I noticed a peculiar swirl down just below where the boys are swimming now. There, Andy Flinn has dived right into the spot! Oh! I hope nothing will happen to Andy, sir. Perhaps you'd better call them out, right away!" Mr. Gordon uttered an exclamation of alarm. He turned his head and seemed to be looking for something. Then Paul saw him snatch up a rope that was coiled, and hanging from the stump of a tree close to the camp. Mr. Gordon had placed it there himself, and for a purpose. "Come with me, Paul!" he called over his shoulder; but there was little need of his saying this, for the young patrol leader was already hurrying after him, his face white with sudden fear. CHAPTER XXVI THE SUCKER-HOLE The swimmers were astonished to see Mr. Gordon coming on the run toward them, with Paul at his heels. But by that time the two who had been actively playing conquer with Andy Flinn began to notice something queer. "He don't come up at all, sir; Andy's got us all beat to a frazzle staying under!" one of them declared, as if surprised that the Irish lad could hold his breath so long. The words thrilled Paul, for he realized that his worst fears were likely to be realized. And how glad he felt that there was some one else there now, capable of assuming the responsibility. Had the duty devolved on him, not knowing the terrible peril of a sucker-hole, he might have plunged straight in, to try and find Andy; when there would have been two victims, perhaps many more! Mr. Gordon was quickly flinging one end of the rope toward Paul. He had slipped the noose over his own body, securing it under his arms. "If you feel any quick jerks pull hard!" he shouted. The next instant, he had leaped from the bank. They saw him take a graceful header into the agitated water, where the boys were gathering. Then he vanished from their sight. Paul clutched the rope and gathered in the slack. His heart was pounding like mad with the anxiety, while he waited for results. If no signal came after a certain lapse of time he meant to pull in anyway; determined that Mr. Gordon must not be sacrificed too. "Get a grip here, some of you fellows!" he called, fearing lest he might not be able to manage alone. Willing hands seized hold, and half a dozen hung to the rope. Every eye was fastened on the surface of the water; but since the boys had trooped ashore it was no longer agitated. Paul could see that wide circle forming a distinct swirl. He shuddered as he looked at it. Never again would he ever watch a sweeping ring in the water without feeling a coldness in the region of his heart. The terrible seconds passed. Some of the boys were as white as ghosts; and they shivered while standing there scantily clad. "Oh! let's drag him back!" exclaimed William, who had hold next to Paul. "Not yet. It isn't hardly half a minute, and Mr. Gordon can hold out longer than that," Paul replied, firmly; though himself anxiously counting the seconds, because he knew he could never trust to a haphazard guess. "There! wasn't that a jerk?" asked Jud Elderkin; but the wish was father to the thought; and again Paul refused to be swerved from his plan of action. Sighs were heard, and more than one groan. It required considerable firmness on the part of the patrol leader to refrain, when every nerve in his body seemed crying out in protest. But the time he had set as a limit had not yet expired. Just as he was about to give in, he felt a sudden quick pull, followed by another. "Now!" he called, in his excitement, and it was like the letting off steam from an overcharged boiler. How those fellows did pull upon that line! Paul had to caution them to be careful, such was their eagerness to get the scoutmaster safely above water. And when presently his figure arose, and they saw that he was carrying poor Andy in his arms, such a shout as went up! Two fellows who had been in camp all this while, resting in ignorance as to the thrilling event that was transpiring, came galloping along the shore to see what was up. Mr. Gordon knew just how to get to work in order to revive Andy, providing he had not been under the water too long. His system was the same as that used by Paul; indeed, it had been the scoutmaster who had taught Paul much of what he knew in the science of life saving. After half an hour of hard work, during which the boys were greatly depressed, success greeted their efforts. Andy was revived; but he had had even a closer call than Tom Betts. It was a very useful lesson to every boy in camp, and one that they could profit by in future years. "What did it feel like, Andy?" asked Mr. Gordon, after the rescued boy had recovered enough to talk. "Sure and I thought a great big giant had holt of me," Andy remarked, slowly and thoughtfully. "I tried me best to break away; but the harder I swum the tighter he grabbed me. I remimber trying to shout out for help, and swallowin' a quart of wather. Thin I didn't know anything at all till I opened me peepers right here, and saw yees all dancin' around me. But I don't go swimmin' in that old lake agin. It's enchanted, that's what it is." When the secret of the unseen outlet of the lake was explained to Andy, he just smiled and shook his head. He had been down there, and ought to know if there was a giant waiting to make a meal of plump boys. Nor could they ever convince Andy to the contrary; and it was noticed that he did not go in bathing again during their stay. After that, while swimming tests as well as those of diving, were expected to be indulged in every day during their stay in Camp Surprise, the boys would keep well away from the place where that steady swirl in the water told of the treacherous sucker-hole. Mr. Gordon's chief forte lay in water athletics. He was like a duck himself, and never tired of teaching those boys who showed an inclination to learn. It was of vast importance to know just what ought to be done should a swimmer be suddenly seized with a cramp while in deep water, and with no one near to help him. Then he took pains to show them just how it was possible to break the frenzied grip of a drowning person, that has so many times drawn a would-be rescuer down to a watery grave. Whether the grasp was upon the wrists, the neck, or around the body from the back, there was a simple method of shaking off the terrified one in order to clutch him unawares. Talk or entreaty being impossible under such circumstances, immediate action is the only way of accomplishing results. In the wrist hold the swimmer must suddenly raise his arms and sink, eluding the other's clutch as he goes down. When clasped about the neck it is necessary to raise the knees and give a sudden and powerful thrust forward that forces the other away. "That grip on the back has always been the most difficult to manage, for me at least," the instructor continued, while explaining the various methods by actual demonstration, in the water; "sometimes you can take hold of the wrists that are clasped around you, and by pushing with all your force backward, find a chance to slip out from the threatening embrace." "But suppose that fails?" observed Jack, who, as a good swimmer, was eagerly listening to all that was said, and endeavoring to profit by the advice. The scoutmaster shrugged his shoulders at this question. "Well," he said gravely, "under such conditions there remains but one method. It sounds cruel, but remember that two lives are at stake. Heroic measures alone can save one, and give the other a chance. Throw back your head suddenly with considerable force. You will come in contact with his nose, and give him a shock that is likely to so unsettle him that you can break away, and turn around." He even showed the boys how this could be done, without, of course, bringing into play the roughest part of the rescue act. If every Boy Scout only learned these simple rules for rescuing a comrade without running much risk himself, dozens and scores of precious lives might be saved every Summer. As evening came on, and preparations were being made to have a rousing supper, in order to celebrate the arrival of the scoutmaster, Mr. Gordon and Paul separated themselves from the rest of the campers to talk matters over. "One thing is sure, Paul," remarked Mr. Gordon, with a look of grim determination; "we must make certain that there is no repetition of last night's bombardment." "You mean the Slavin crowd, sir, I take it?" observed the patrol leader. "Yes," went on Mr. Gordon; "and I commend your plan for nipping such a thing in the bud. Of course it's a shame that we are not allowed to camp up here in peace. But those fellows need a good lesson before they'll call quits, and go back home. I've made up my mind just what ought to be done in the matter." "You know," said Paul, "I suggested having several of our scouts located up on the side of the mountain, with plenty of ammunition handy; and when the first stone is thrown, they could send a volley right at the spot where they discover the others at work." "A good idea, too," commented the scoutmaster, readily, "and one we will put into operation; but even that does not strike at the root of the matter. If we are disturbed to-night, or at any other time by those unruly boys, I shall organize an expedition on the very next morning, to search the side of the mountain back of us, in the hope of finding where they have their headquarters." "We have made up our minds that it must be in a cave. I understand the mountain is fairly honeycombed with them in parts, Mr. Gordon." "I have no doubt that will prove to be the case," continued the leader of the troop; "since you say they brought no tents along, and not very much to eat. And should we find out where they are located I am going to manage in some way to make them lose what few provisions they have. That is the quickest way in the world to subdue a hostile army; capture their base of supplies." "You mean they will have to go back home, or stay hungry?" laughed Paul; "well, I never thought of that, and must say it is fine. I don't think you'll have any trouble about getting recruits for that expedition. The fact is, every fellow will want to be in the party." "Then we'll choose those we want," said Mr. Gordon, "and make the rest guard the camp, which might be raided by the angry Slavin crowd, when they learned what was on the carpet. But Paul, that odor in the air smells very appetizing. I imagine our cooks must be doing themselves proud to-night. It will be hard to wait for the assembly call. Look at our William putting on airs with that chef's white cap cocked over his ears. Oh! this is certainly worth while coming for. What's that, Bobolink picking up his bugle? I really believe supper is ready. How glad I am to be here to-night. Come, Paul, and let us see what sort of fare the Stanhope troop can offer us." CHAPTER XXVII GATHERING CLOUDS Pop! pop! pop! "Listen to that, will you?" shouted William, as he jumped to his feet, and waved his arms above his head to attract attention. It was the following day. The night had passed without any alarm, and the squad of scouts posted on the side of the mountain with instructions to shower stones on Ted and his allies should any attack be made on the camp, had their labor for their pains, since nothing happened out of the ordinary. During the middle of the morning, while many of the scouts were at work developing plates, and printing pictures that had already been taken, suddenly there came on the breeze that quick pulsating sound, so unlike anything one might expect to hear up in this vast solitude. "It's Ward's motorcycle!" cried Jud Elderkin, almost upsetting the daylight film-tank in his eagerness to gain his feet. "Yes, and he's coming down the old road like fun," remarked another of the boys with a laugh; "reckon a wildcat or something is after him!" "There he is!" called Philip Towne, pointing to an opening among the trees; and immediately adding, "no he's gone past. Look what's that chasing him?" "Oh! that's the rest of the lot, whooping it up on their wheels," remarked William, himself interested, and ready to snap his camera at the procession as soon as it got within open range; "and they look like they've had a bad scare, as sure as you live. Oh! there goes Scissors head over heels in the bushes. What a cropper he took, and how his head will sing to-morrow." "But he's up again, and mounted," broke in Jack. "As sure as you live, boys, they do look like they wanted to get back home in a hurry. What d'ye suppose has scared them?" By this time Ward on his motorcycle was abreast of the camp. He was not putting up any great speed, for the road would not allow of it. On this account the fellows on ordinary bicycles were able to hang closely to his rear. It was not in human nature to hold back that cheer which went up from the camp of the Boy Scouts. Possibly there was considerable of irony in it too, the kind that smarts with all lads. Those who were in full flight seemed to consider that they were being held up to derision, for they sent back answering cries of scorn, accompanied by not a few gestures. "Hurrah, I've got the whole kit!" shouted William, as he lowered his camera, "Ward, Scissors, Bud Jones, Monkey Eggleston and Nat Green. We've got all the evidence we want, to show they were up here. But I missed that dandy header Scissors took! What wouldn't I give to get that?" "I might spare you a copy, if my exposure turns out all right, William," remarked Jack, smiling; "for I just happened to be pressing the button when he showed us what an acrobat he had become." "They're gone now," said Tom Betts, as the last of the group, being poor Scissors himself, with one hand trying to staunch the blood that flowed from his nose, wobbled among the stones that so plentifully strewed the unused road. Paul and Jack exchanged glances as they approached each other. "What do you suppose has happened to give them that bad scare?" asked the latter. "I might give a guess, but perhaps we'll never know," replied Paul. "I suppose," ventured his chum, "you're thinking of that man, the fellow who stole our ham, and who came up here in that light rig?" "Yes," said the patrol leader, seriously, "but when I was out on the mountain this morning after breakfast I thought I'd take a chance to follow that trail further. What do you think I found only a few hundred feet away from our camp?" "I really don't know, Paul." "The tracks of two other men!" came the reply, in Paul's most impressive manner. "Oh! then the thief wasn't alone; he has friends up here!" ejaculated Jack. "That's a point I'm not decided on," Paul went on. "These tracks were not made at the same time as his. They always cut across the long footprint, marked by the patch on the shoe. That told me they were _following_ the thief. Then I figured out that, as it was impossible to do this in the night, they must have come across his trail early this morning, and taken it up." "H'm! That sounds as if they might want to meet the thief. Then they can't be very dear friends of his, Paul!" exclaimed Jack. "My idea is that they want to find the man who made those footprints. Just as soon as they discovered his tracks they started following him. And that was so close to our camp they must have smelled the bacon frying, and the coffee." Paul had evidently been thinking seriously over the matter, and had arrived at some conclusion. "I guess they didn't want to see us very bad. Look here, Paul, do you think the man who drove along in that rig is one of these two men?" demanded Jack, suddenly. "Now you're getting close to what I mapped out myself," smiled Paul. "Perhaps Ted and his crowd had an ugly experience with those men?" suggested Jack, following up his train of thought. "I can't imagine what else could have given them such a scare," returned the patrol leader. "When they came in sight they looked rattled for keeps. I noticed too, that Ted seemed to hold his left arm half dangling at his side, as if it had been hurt." "Well, anyhow, if they've scared the Slavin crowd out of this region we'll have to take off our lids to the unknown gentlemen," laughed his chum. The balance of that day passed off pleasantly. Many things occupied the attention of the campers; and all the while they were learning more about the secrets which a bountiful Nature hides in her solitudes away from the haunts of men. "Thank goodness," declared Nuthin, as he rubbed his side with considerable feeling, "no more of that guard duty up on the side of the mountain after this. Since Ted and his bad lot have skipped out, there's no need of expecting a shower of rocks at any time during the night. I'll sleep like a brick to-night, boys, you bet!" "But all the same we'll keep guard, and don't you forget it, Nuthin," declared William, who chanced to overhear the remark; "because you see, the same thief who grabbed our fine ham might take a notion to get his fingers on more grub, and first thing you know we'd have to cut and run for town just like those fellows on wheels did, starved out." "Yes," interposed Bobolink, as he joined the group, and lowered his voice mysteriously; "I just heard Paul and Mr. Gordon talking about two more men that seem to be wandering at large up here. That makes three, you see, and none of 'em care to step into our dandy camp in the daytime. Boys, don't you see what an ugly look that has?" The three scouts exchanged glances, and nodded their heads. Like all boys they loved a touch of excitement, and the fact that there was a mystery hanging about Rattlesnake Mountain just pleased them. "Now, what d'ye think these prowlers might be?" asked Nuthin, in awed tones. "Huh! Why d'ye suppose men'd hang out in such a place as this, and shun their fellows, if they ain't been doin' something against the law?" demanded William, with lofty scorn. "My! then you mean they're escaped convicts, or something like that?" gasped the deeply absorbed Nuthin, his eyes round with wonder, and perhaps a touch of fear. "I wouldn't be surprised," replied William, indifferently, as became a valiant scout; "and it's my opinion that the feller who passed us in that rig when we were resting on the road that day, looked like _he_ was a bad egg. If ever I saw what my dad calls a hang-dog look on a man's face, he was all to the good. I hope I don't meet the same when I'm doing my lone stunt through the woods, that's all." Joe Clausin had been hovering near while they talked in this way. At first he had shown just the natural curiosity a boy might under the circumstances; but as William began to declare his belief in the rascality of the lone traveler, his face turned rosy red, and then pale. He walked quickly away, perhaps afraid that one of his companions might notice his confusion. A guard was set that night as usual, and their supply of food was placed in such a position that none of it might be stolen by any clever method of using a fishhook and line. Again morning came without any alarm. The scouts by this time had begun to hope that their troubles were over. During the day they penetrated further into the wilderness of rocks and trees that surrounded them, and Mr. Gordon was kept busy explaining the innumerable matters that caught the attention of the eager lads in every quarter. The weather had grown much warmer. Indeed, several of the boys complained of the heat; and as clouds covered the heavens at nightfall, the scoutmaster warned them to be prepared for a storm before morning. Once more tent pins were examined, and everything made as secure as possible. At the same time Paul surveyed the black sky with secret misgivings, wondering what they would have to do should a tornado sweep down upon them there on the side of the mountains, and demolish their tents. The scouts turned in earlier than usual that night, for Mr. Gordon thought it well to get what sleep they could. He went the rounds last of all, to make sure the provisions could not be wholly ruined by water, no matter what befell. By nine o'clock the camp was wrapped in silence, even the fire dying out. The moan of the wind through the pines further up the mountain helped to sing most of the scouts to sleep. Two hours later the guard was changed; and again silence fell upon the scene. It must have been midnight and past when Paul was awakened by what he thought was the rush and roar of a railroad train. Alarmed he sat up to listen. CHAPTER XXVIII THE GREAT STORM "Oh! Listen to that, will you!" came a loud voice from a nearby tent, as one of the other sleepers, aroused by the racket, started up in wild alarm. Shrill cries arose in every quarter. Not a single scout now but who was wide-awake, and endeavoring to pull on his clothes in haste. That former experience had at least taught them a lesson; and much confusion was avoided at the start. Already were the tents wabbling furiously. Some of the more timid boys kept calling the name of Mr. Gordon, just as if the scoutmaster, however willing, could be of any avail against the aroused forces of Nature. "Wow! look at that, will you!" shouted Nuthin, as the tent under which he and his three companions cowered, threatened to sail away before the increasing gale. The storm was no ordinary one. Paul knew something of the signs, and even his stout heart quailed a bit as he heard the terrible sound of trees crashing to the earth somewhere near by. Perhaps this was to be a duplicate of the hurricane that had toppled over so many of the big forest monarchs years before! Already were the boys outside, hanging on to the tents for dear life, regardless of the fact that they were being slowly but surely drenched. "We can't seem to beat it out!" gasped William, almost out of breath with his tremendous exertions. "She's going to carry off, fellows!" shrieked another scout. "Don't anybody let go yet!" commanded Paul; equal to the occasion. He darted into the wildly agitated tent, and with all his strength tore the central pole from its hold. The tent instantly collapsed, amid the howls of the upset boys, who really thought it was tearing away from their grasp. "Now pile some rocks on top!" ordered Paul, as he crept out from under. They seemed to grasp his idea, and immediately set about carrying it out. In this way the wind could not get at the tent; and the consequence was, that later on it would be found safely held under the press. Paul darted to the next tent, where another lot of scared boys were holding on for dear life; while the thundering of the storm beat in their ears, and almost demoralized the entire troop. It was his intention to assist them in the same way he had his immediate chums; but just as he reached the spot there arose a combined shout. "Look out! there she goes!" With a ripping sound the tent was torn from the grasp of the four scouts, and went sailing off into the pitchy darkness. Paul could only hope that it might become fast in some friendly tree, and be found again when daylight arrived. Not satisfied with stopping there he darted to the next bunch who were apparently still able to hold to their canvas. They did not know what he meant to do, and when the tent suddenly collapsed loud were their cries of distress. But Paul was quickly among them, shouting orders in their ears similar to those he had given in the other case. So he kept on. A third and a fourth tent he treated in the same way, and by now many of the scouts began themselves to grapple with the solution of the problem, so that he was able to call upon these for assistance. When he made for the big round top that covered the provisions Paul was agreeably surprised to find that it was already down, and snugly gripped by half a dozen heavy stones, at the corners and elsewhere. From this he knew that Mr. Gordon, who had spoken to him about this relief measure in case of sore necessity, must have been there. All these things took place in really less time than it requires to tell them. Perhaps it seemed hours to some of the alarmed boys; but only a few minutes had actually passed between the arousing of the camp, and the final scene where the last tent was thrown down and secured. So far as Paul knew only two had blown away. Considering the fearful violence of the wind that howled along the plateau, crossing the lake, and throwing the water high in the air, this was doing very well indeed. And what a sight the camp presented when that moment arrived! Paul could hardly keep from laughing at the picture that he saw when the lightning flashed; even though his heart was still beating like a trip-hammer with excitement. It certainly looked as though a cyclone had struck Camp Surprise. Ruin and desolation surrounded them on all sides. Trees had been blown down in many instances, and everywhere were signs of a tempest such as none of these lads had even known in all their lives. Paul managed to find the scoutmaster after a bit. "Looks like a bad job, sir!" he shouted in Mr. Gordon's ear. "It certainly does, Paul," came the reply, also in a loud tone; "but bad as this seems I'm afraid from the signs that we'll get even worse before morning!" "What ought we do then?" asked Paul, his anxiety aroused once more by these words. "We ought to get out of this as soon as we can. Those trees up there look as if they might fall down on us any time," replied Mr. Gordon quickly. "But where can we go, sir," cried Paul. "I've heard lots of trees go over, down the side of the mountain. Besides, there's no shelter there for us." "We will have to make our way along the side of the mountain up here," answered Mr. Gordon, "and trust to luck to run across one of those caves you were speaking about. Shelter we must find as soon as possible. It would be hard on some of the boys to remain exposed to this wind and pouring rain all the night." "Shall I try to get them together, sir?" asked the patrol leader. "Yes, round them up near the mess tent, Paul." They separated, and began to grope around, for it was fearfully dark, save when a flash of lightning came to show the terrors surrounding them. Paul, as soon as he came upon a cowering figure, shouted the directions of the scoutmaster in his ear, and then went on. He was himself more awed than he would care to admit by the nature of this awful storm. Nothing in all his limited experience had ever approached it in violence. "Oh! that lucky Slavin crowd, to get home before this came along!" shouted envious William, when Paul came upon him trying to crawl under a rock that offered a little shelter from the fury of the blast. When he could find no more boys to summon, Paul himself made his way toward the fallen mess tent. Here he found about a score of excited boys clustered, trying to bolster up each others' spirits by making out that they were not a bit afraid. "Are all here?" Mr. Gordon first of all demanded, in such a way that every fellow was able to hear what he said. Paul started to count, pulling each scout behind him. A flash from above was of considerable assistance to him in carrying out his plan. "Not one missing but Nuthin, sir!" he announced, presently. "Who saw him last?" demanded Mr. Gordon. "I did, sir," replied one of the scouts, promptly; "he was hangin' on to our tent when it blew away into the air!" "Oh! then he must have been carried up into the tree, for the tent stuck there," announced another voice, with a thrill of horror in it. "Come and show me which tree; Paul, I may want your help. The rest of you stay right here, and don't move under any circumstances," and so saying Mr. Gordon caught the boy who "knew" by the shoulder, and dragged him along. Paul staggered after them. The wind was very strong, and it was impossible to walk in places without bending down almost to the earth. Besides, there seemed to be many branches torn from the trees flying through the air, so that it was perilous to life and limb to be abroad. But the scoutmaster was one who could command, and he forced the tentmate of the missing Nuthin to find the spot where the canvas had stood at the time it was torn out of their hands. "That's the tree, sir!" cried the boy, trying to point in the darkness. "I can see something white up in the branches, sir; it must be the tent!" Paul himself shouted just then. They made their way forward, and the lightning, happening just then to dart in zigzag lines across the inky heavens as if to assist them, they saw that sure enough the missing tent was caught in the tree, about fifteen feet from the ground. "Can you see anything of him, Paul?" called Mr. Gordon, as the three of them cowered under the tree, that was bending and groaning before the blast. "I didn't that time, sir; but wait for another flash; perhaps we'll have better luck," replied the patrol leader, eagerly. It was a long time coming. Paul could feel the other scout shivering furiously as his hand touched him, probably more through fright than excessive cold; though the experience of being soaked to the skin was far from comforting. Then came a dazzling flood of electric light that almost blinded them. "There he is, sir, hanging onto the tent! I think he must be twisted up in one of the ropes. Shall I go up and find out?" called Paul. "I think you'll have to, my boy," answered the scoutmaster; and if ever he felt pride in one of his troop it must have been then, when Paul, forgetting what chances there were of that tree falling, offered to climb into the branches, in order to rescue a comrade in peril. Without losing a second the patrol leader sought the lowest limb, and drew himself up. He could feel the trunk of the bending tree straining as it was twisted by the violence of each terrible blast; but undaunted by this impending calamity Paul's only desire was to reach the side of poor Nuthin before worse things happened to him than being carried away with the balloon-like tent. CHAPTER XXIX A PANIC-STRICKEN CROWD "Oh! Help! help!" The cry reached Paul's ears between blasts of the howling wind; but he never could have caught it had he not been so close to the wretched boy who gave utterance to the appeal. With every nerve strained to the utmost, the young patrol leader continued to climb upward. He could see the tent flattened out like a great pancake against the branches of the tree. It had opened as it swept along, and the force of the gale had for the time being turned it into a sort of balloon. This accounted for the carrying away of Nuthin, who was a slender lad at best. Paul found more or less difficulty in reaching a point where he could come in contact with his comrade. Branches were in the way, and swayed back and forth in a furious fashion as fresh gusts of wind caught them. "I'm coming, Albert; hold out a little!" Paul shouted as he strained; and it was perhaps strange that in such a period of excitement he unconsciously used the real name of Cypher, something few people save his parents and teachers did, when A. Cypher stood so handsomely for Nuthin. One more desperate effort, and Paul, by stretching out his hand, found he could touch the other. Doubtless the contact sent a thrill of hope through the hanging scout. "How are you caught?" Paul called, as he managed to force himself still nearer by hanging on to the branches with his other hand, and twisting both legs around the same. "I think a piece of rope is wrapped around my body. Anyway it hurts like fun, and my arms seem all numb," he heard Nuthin reply. This sort of an explanation just fitted in with what Paul had conjectured. He had found it hard to believe that Nuthin would be so frightened as to cling desperately to the flying tent, when he knew that it was being carried off by the gale. He must have been an involuntary passenger of the airship that quickly ended its short flight in a neighboring tree. Fortunately Paul had his stout pocket knife with him. He never went without it; and furthermore, it was his habit to keep all of the blades very sharp. If a knife is going to be worth a grain of salt it should be sharp. Many a fellow has realized this with dismay when some situation has confronted him calling for a keen blade, and has found his knife almost worthless to solve the difficulty. Perhaps had he been asked later just how he managed to get that knife out of his pocket, and the largest blade opened, Paul might have some trouble in telling. The first thing he knew, he was again pushing himself inch by inch closer to the boy who was hung up in the tree, and feeling for the rope that held Nuthin fast. When, after a little, he had found it, Paul prepared to press the edge of his knife against the same. "Oh! please hurry, Paul; I'm awfully afraid the tree will go down!" he heard Nuthin cry. But Paul had another problem to face. If he cut suddenly there would be nothing to support the other, and Nuthin might have an ugly fall through small branches that would scratch his face still more than it had been already cut. "Can you feel anything under your feet?" he asked, almost in the other's ear. "Yes, I've been standing on a small limb; but sometimes I slip off when that wind swings the tree so. I'm deathly sick, Paul, and dizzy. But one of my hands is loose now. Tell me what to do, please," came back instantly, as loud as Nuthin could speak. "That's good," declared Paul. "Feel around just above you. Can't you get hold of a branch or two, and hang on when I cut the rope? I want to keep you from falling when the support goes." "Why, yes, I've got hold of one, Paul," answered Nuthin, who seemed to catch a trifle of the other's coolness; "and my feet are on the one below, now." Paul dared not wait another second. He pressed the blade against the rope, and with a determined movement severed the strands. Then, dropping his handy knife, he immediately threw his arm around the body of Nuthin. Possibly the other might have managed to keep from falling; but still he was in a state of panic, and his muscles were weakened by their recent confinement. "It's all right!" Paul shouted, when Nuthin gave utterance to a shriek: "I've got you safe! Now, try to work your way over here. Take it easy, and you'll make it, never fear." And Nuthin did. By degrees he seemed to gather courage, and was able to help himself. In times of stress there is nothing like confidence. It carries nearly everything before it, and brings victory where otherwise defeat must have won the day. Presently Nuthin had reached the body of the tree, and was descending. There was really no need to urge him to haste, for he could not get down to the ground a second too soon to satisfy his anxiety. They found the others awaiting them below, and Mr. Gordon caught Nuthin in his arms as if to express delight at his almost marvelous escape. What if no one had noticed the absence of Albert, and they had hurried away from the ruined camp, leaving him fast in the tree? He would have been in for a terrible experience, and in the end it might have resulted seriously for the boy. "Are you badly injured, Albert?" asked the instructor, as he drew the other on toward the point where the balance of the disrupted troop crouched, trying to get out of the way of those furious bursts of wind. "Pretty sore, sir, but nothing serious, I reckon," came the reassuring answer, which proved that Nuthin did, after all, possess a fair amount of pluck. When they arrived in the vicinity of the spot where the mess tent had stood, the rest of the troop greeted their coming with a faint cheer. It takes a good deal to utterly discourage a bunch of healthy boys; and while things looked pretty bleak, still they made out to consider the adventure in the light of a joke. No one wished his companions to know just how badly frightened he really was. "Now we must get out of this," said Mr. Gordon, "and as we make our way along, try and keep together as much as you can. Pair off, and hold on, each to his mate. Ready?" In this manner, leaving Dobbin, the horse to his fate, they deserted the late joyous camp, now lying a seeming wreck. Yet things were not as bad as they might have been, thanks to their wisdom in cutting down the tents before more of them blew away. The crash of falling trees could still be heard with every renewed furious blast. But just as Mr. Gordon had said, these sounds proceeded almost wholly from the lower region. That was the reason he declined to seek safety in that quarter, preferring to push in the teeth of the blow, because the rocky shelters were to be found there. They made but slow progress, but as time passed on they managed to gain some distance from the open space of the late camp, where the little hurricane had so free a sweep. As yet they had not been successful in discovering any sort of a refuge worthy of the name. The rocks were piled up all around them, and they had to do a great deal of clambering over obstacles in order to get along; but so far as a cave went none had been found. Mr. Gordon knew that some of his charges must be perilously near the point of exhaustion. All the boys were not as robust and hardy as Paul and several others. He was becoming genuinely alarmed concerning them, knowing that unless shelter were quickly found they would be apt to fall. "We must change our tactics," he called out, finally; "and instead of going on in a trailing line, spread out and cover more ground. If any one finds a cave let him give the scout's shout of discovery!" After that they advanced more slowly, since it was really every one for himself. Paul saw that the scoutmaster must have been right when he declared that they had not yet experienced the worst of the terrible Summer storm. It seemed to be getting slowly but surely more violent, and he wondered what amount of damage it would carry along the farms of the Bushkill, and the various towns and villages bordering its banks. Stumbling blindly at times, it was no wonder the boys had many a tumble. Hands were bruised and scratched, yet in the excitement little attention was paid to such trifling things. Several times Paul fancied that one of his mates had called out, and hope began to surge afresh through his heart. In every case, however, it proved to be a mistake, since no succeeding calls announced the glad fact that shelter had been discovered. He was forced to believe that the sounds he heard were only new exultant shrieks of the wind, as it swept along the side of old Rattlesnake Mountain. Jack was close at the side of his chum, and when the darkness prevented them from actually seeing each other, they frequently caught hands, so that they might not be separated. Whenever a little lull came in the storm the cheery voice of the scoutmaster was heard, encouraging his followers to hold out "just a little longer." In this time of gloom Mr. Gordon endeared himself to the hearts of those soaked boys as he had never before done while the sun was shining, and all seemed well. Paul realized that they were now plodding along over ground that was totally unfamiliar to him. It gave him new hope that shortly one of the extended line might discover what they sought. And it was just when he was bolstering up his courage in this fashion that he heard a sudden sharp cry from his chum. The lightning flashed out at that second and Paul looked eagerly toward the spot where he knew Jack had been but a brief interval before. To his astonishment his chum had utterly disappeared from view, as though the rocks had opened and swallowed him! CHAPTER XXX THE UNDERGROUND REFUGE "Jack! oh! Jack!" called the patrol leader, filled with dismay over the mysterious disappearance of his best friend. "Hello! Paul!" That was surely Jack answering him, but where could he be? The sound seemed to come from underground, which fact gave Paul a suspicion regarding the truth. "Where are you?" he shouted, as he flattened himself out close to the ground. "Down in a hole! Look out, or you'll come in too. Tell Mr. Gordon I've found a cave!" came back to his ears. So, after all, it was Paul who sent forth the signal agreed on, announcing the welcome fact that a refuge had been discovered. The rest of the boys came crawling to the spot by twos, eager and curious. "Take care!" Paul cried out, as he heard them arriving on either side, "Jack fell down a hole right about here. We must find where it is, or else some more of us may follow suit!" Paul believed that his chum could not have been seriously injured by his sudden and unexpected descent. Had this been the case he would not have called quite so cheerily as he did. Searching in the quarter where he last remembered seeing Jack, he presently discovered that the trailing vines hid the mouth of a cave. It was not more than four feet across, but would answer their purpose, no doubt. And even as he looked he saw a match flame out below, and caught sight of Jack on his knees, peering eagerly upward. Luckily he, as well as every other scout, had learned to always carry matches in a waterproof case while in camp, since there could be no telling when they might need such valuable little articles. Paul quickly found a way to clamber down the side of the opening, and join his chum. "Well, this is something like," he observed, relieved to find that he could now speak without shouting, as the sound of the gale was deadened underground. "Were you hurt by that tumble, Jack?" "Oh! not worth mentioning," replied the one addressed, as he rubbed his knee, and then struck another match, so that the others might see how to get down. Some were fortunate enough to make the descent safely. A few came sprawling, and sat there rubbing their bruises and grunting. Presently Mr. Gordon, counting noses, announced that the entire troop had been safely housed. Wallace being one of the first to arrive, had busied himself looking around while the balance of his comrades were making the descent. Finding some bits of dry wood handy he started a little blaze. This served two purposes, for while it dissipated the dense darkness that surrounded them, at the same time it seemed to give the drenched and shivering lads a trifle of new courage. "See if you can find more wood, fellows," Wallace observed, knowing that if thus employed the scouts were less apt to grow despondent over their discouraging condition. As the boy scouts began to feel more comfortable, their spirits commenced to go upward again, just as the mercury in a thermometer rises with the coming of heat. "We're a lucky lot, I tell you, fellows, to stumble on such a fine snug hole in the nick of time!" declared Tom Betts, as he rubbed his hands together, before giving his place in the front rank to another scout less favored, and still shivering. Some of the scouts were so utterly exhausted that presently, when they began to feel more comfortable, as their clothes dried in a measure, they gave evidence of drowsiness. Mr. Gordon made these fellows lie down in a heap, and try to sleep. They would secure a certain degree of warmth by contact with their mates. But there were others of just a contrary mind, who had never been more wideawake in their lives than just then. Sleep was the last thing they thought about. "I wonder where this cave leads to?" remarked Bobolink, after more than an hour had elapsed. Paul was interested, of course. Anything that bordered on mystery at all, always had a peculiar fascination for him. And Jack was pretty much of the same mind. "If we could only get a few torches together," the former observed in answer to Bobolink's remark, "I'd just like to take a little trip around, and see what lies back there. Some of us have gone fifty feet and more, looking for more wood; and there was no back wall to the place. Perhaps it might have another entrance; and I'd just like to know whether any other fellows ever did camp in here. If we found the ashes of a fire we'd know for certain." "Let's go!" suggested Bobolink, ready for any lark. "But how about the torches?" continued the cautious Jack; "I wouldn't like to get lost in such a twisting hole in the ground. That might turn out to be worse than lying out there in the storm." "Oh! we can get enough wood to keep us going," replied Bobolink; "and besides, it seems to be lying all along the passage, as if some feller had dropped pieces every time he went in with a load. Come on, say yes, Paul." "All right, then," said the patrol leader, ready to give way to argument; "but we must be careful. I've got a scheme boys, to keep from getting lost in this place." "Tell us how, then!" demanded both the others; and Joe Clausin, who had been hovering near by, came closer to catch what was being said. "I've got a piece of red chalk in my pocket; and we can mark the way as we go," Paul continued; "and when we get tired of prowling around so that we want to come back here, all we have to do is to follow the red marks of the arrows." "That's what I call a bully scheme, Paul. Now come along," cried Bobolink. "Count me in too, fellows," said a voice just then. "Why, hello! Joe, is that you?" exclaimed Paul, turning to look into the eager face of the Clausin boy. "Why sure, if you want to go along, and feel able to keep on your feet. Start up one of your torches, Bobolink; and every one keep his eyes on the lookout for more tinder as we go along." Paul could not help noticing that Joe had an unusually eager look on his face at the time he asked to accompany them. He could read between the lines, and guessed what was in the other's mind. Perhaps Joe allowed himself to imagine, or even hope, that luck might enable them to run across the man who had passed up into this region, and who looked so like some one he believed must be at the other side of the world. Paul took the lead as the four boys moved away. Mr. Gordon looked after them; but having the utmost confidence in the young patrol leader, he did not ask them what their intentions were. And none of them imagined they would be gone any great length of time. Presently they had passed the line that marked the boundary of any former search for fuel. And Paul noticed as he walked on, holding the rude torch above his head, that the winding passage seemed to be constantly getting larger. This gave him the idea that they must have fallen into one of its extreme branches; and that perhaps, after all, their exploration might reveal wonders of which none of them had so much as dreamed. CHAPTER XXXI THE BOY SCOUTS AS EXPLORERS "Oh! Shucks! there she goes again!" exclaimed Bobolink, when the torch suddenly whiffed out, to leave them in the dark. Bobolink sometimes carried the light when the splinter of wood Paul had held burned to its finish. He was not as careful as he might be, and consequently twice already had they been compelled to stop and use a precious match in order to renew the illumination. "You want to be more careful, Bobolink," remarked Paul, as he applied a match to the still smouldering torch his companion carried. "I was trying to keep from trouble," grumbled the one who had been at fault; "but something just seemed to snuff it out. Did anybody hear a sound like a dog growling right then?" "Oh! my, what do you mean, Bobolink?" asked Joe; "you're just trying to scare us, and you know it. 'Taint fair either. I felt a draught of air, and that was what puffed your light out. There ain't any wild animals in here, are there, Paul?" "I don't think so," replied Paul, smiling at Joe's alarm; "because you can nearly always smell the den of a fox or a wildcat. Now, what are you staring at, Bobolink?" "Look there, what d'ye call that, fellows?" demanded the torchbearer, pointing ahead to where the little light just managed to win out against the gloom. "Been a fire in here, that's sure," observed Jack, eagerly advancing. In another minute all of them were bending over a flattened heap of ashes, undoubtedly the remains of some fire made by unknown people who had occupied the cave. "Wonder whether they were tramps, or thieves?" Bobolink was saying. "Perhaps neither," remarked Paul, who was looking closely about him, with the intention of allowing nothing of moment to escape his gaze. "Huh! then you think perhaps that Ted Slavin and his crowd might have made this fire; is that it, Paul?" asked Bobolink, quite satisfied to have another do his thinking for him. "Well, hardly, because these ashes have been here a long time, perhaps several years, for all we know," remarked Paul. "Go back a little further, Paul, and say the mound builders left 'em," chuckled the doubting Bobolink, who always had to be shown. "Look for yourselves. You know what fresh ashes are like. These have settled down a long time. If it was outdoors now, the rains would have washed them away; but sheltered in this cave they've just blown about by the current of air. And see here why I know no boy sat beside this fire," and while speaking Paul walked over to pick up several things his quick eye had discovered. "An old shoe, and a big one at that!" said Jack, nodding his head, as if agreeing with his chum's version. "And a tomato can with the top cut away," broke in Bobolink, as he looked, "and a stick in the hole of the cover. Say, Paul, I guess you're right, because I've seen tramps heating coffee in that style. It wasn't Ted and his crowd after all; and I guess the old mound builders didn't have tomato cans to use." "Or coffee to put in them," laughed Paul, turning the can upside down, and allowing some dark grains to fall on his palm; at which Bobolink sniffed, and then threw up both hands as though giving in. "Shall we go on further?" asked Paul. "I'm ready to leave it to the rest." "Sure," declared Jack, without hesitation. "Count me in on that, Paul," came from Joe, stoutly. "I'm all to the good," remarked Bobolink; "because, you see, we want to know what sort of a joint we've got here; and if there's any front door to the same. We just sort of fell in at the back entrance; which I take it was hardly the proper thing for decent fellers to do. Skidoo, Paul; we're on your track!" For some little time after that they found nothing of interest. The passage kept winding in and out, in a way that was "some confusing," as Bobolink said. And since there were other passages branching off the main stem Paul thought it wise to bring his red chalk into play. Accordingly, he marked an arrow that always pointed along the right channel, and was calculated to lead them back to where the balance of the troop was quartered. "That's a cinch!" was the way Bobolink greeted this action; and indeed it seemed that no one could possibly miss the route with such a guide at hand. But they had forgotten that light was absolutely necessary in order to tell the way these arrows pointed. Pretty soon Jack awoke to the fact that they no longer seemed able to pick up small pieces of wood which could be used as torches. "And our supply has nearly run out, too," he added, holding up only one more piece. "That looks serious," said Paul; "and perhaps after all our smartness we're going to get lost in the dark. How many matches in the crowd?" A hasty search revealed the act that all told they could only muster nine; for they had been using quite a number. "That isn't much to count on, if we have to depend on them till we get back to where we can find wood again," remarked Paul, thoughtfully. "What shall we do, boys?" "I'm willing to leave it to you," replied Jack; who suspected that his chum had an idea of some sort, which he was ready to spring on them. Both the others agreed with Jack; for they knew that Paul was better able to grapple with such an emergency than either of them claimed to be. And besides, it is so nice to have another fellow do all the thinking at such times. "Then listen," said the patrol leader; "the fact that we can feel a draught of air plainly here tells me there must be another opening to the cave not very far off. If that is the case perhaps we could reach it easier than go back over all the ground we've covered. What say, fellows?" Every boy declared himself in favor of pushing on into the unknown region that lay before, rather than to take chances trying to retrace their steps. Perhaps the spirit of adventure lured them on more or less, for it appeals to almost every lad with red blood in his veins. "That settles it, then; and we'd better get off at once," remarked Paul, satisfied that it was all for the best. The last torch was speedily used. Then they crept along in the dark for a time, after which one of the matches was struck very carefully, in order that they might see their surroundings. "Wow!" exclaimed Bobolink as he found himself looking into what seemed to be a very deep and black hole; "wasn't it lucky we got the glim going when we did? I guess I'd dropped into that pit if we'd held off any longer. My good little angel must have warned me to light up." After that they were even more careful. None of them felt like taking a header into such a gulf, since a fall might break limbs, or do even worse. "That was my last match!" announced Bobolink, after a while. "I've got just one more," said Jack, dolefully. Paul had another, and Joe was completely out. Still there did not seem to be any end to the passage; and Paul, for the first time, began to suspect that they had made a serious mistake in deciding to go ahead, instead of retreating. "I'm just getting played out, and that's no yarn," announced Bobolink, who had been limping for some little time, and grunting, as he would himself have said, "to beat the band." "Suppose then, you three wait here for me," proposed Paul; "I'll make my way along further, and try to find out if there is any hope of finding an opening. I promise to keep one hand on the wall here, so I can get back again." They were loth to have him go; but Joe was almost "all in" too, and Jack thought he ought to stay with the cripples. So Paul crawled away, with but one match in his possession, and feeling in anything but a cheerful mood, although he would not discourage his chums by saying a word that would add to the gloom. He moved cautiously as he advanced, remembering how ugly that pit had looked when Bobolink struck his match; and not wishing to find himself tumbling into such a sink. Just how long he was creeping along in this way after leaving his chums Paul hardly knew, but he must have covered quite some distance. And thus far the current of air did not seem to warrant a belief that an opening was very close by. He was feeling discouraged, and on the point of giving it up as a bad job when he tripped over some object that, of course, he had not seen in the pitch dark. In trying to save himself from falling he upset something that made quite a clatter as it struck the rocks; when to Paul's amazement he heard a voice call out: "Who's that?" and accompanying the words came the scratching of a match. CHAPTER XXXII THE TIN BOX AGAIN Paul stared, and well he might; as the match flamed up he found himself confronting a man who had evidently been sleeping on the floor of the cavern, for he had just thrown a blanket aside. And Paul recognized him instantly as the party who had passed them on that noon, in the rig which he imagined must have been stolen--the man he had reason to believe Joe suspected to be connected with the robbery of his father. Feeling that he would be apt to receive a hostile reception here, Paul turned to run. He hoped that, as the match went out, the other would not know just where to look for him, and thus he might escape. But to his surprise, as he turned he found that another man faced him, who must have been located at a point he had passed while creeping along close to the wall. Before Paul could dodge, this fellow had clasped his arms about him. The other was hastily lighting some sort of lantern, with which he seemed to be provided. Although Paul struggled sturdily he was hardly a match for a full grown man. "Keep still, you!" the fellow growled in his ear; "or I'll give yer somethin' you won't like. Bring the light here, Hank. Let's see what sort o' a critter we've bagged, anyhow." Of course they knew the instant they saw Paul's suit of khaki, discolored even though it was from the rain and dirt. "Huh! another o' them boy scouts you was tellin' me about, eh, Hank?" grumbled the man who held Paul in his embrace. "What under the sun d'ye suppose he's doin' in here? Come to look us up, d'ye s'pose, pardner?" Paul had already seen that the second fellow was even worse looking than the man named Hank, which he took to be a corruption of Henry. In fact, if ever there was a tramp who might be sentenced on his looks alone, this fellow could fill the bill. "I don't know," remarked Hank, slowly, and scowling at Paul; "it doesn't hardly seem possible, though if I thought so, I'd be tempted to choke the young cub. Look here, what brought you up here, and who are you?" "Yes," roared the second man, shaking Paul vigorously, "pipe up and tell us that, 'less you want us to do somethin' you wouldn't like. What d'ye want with us? How'd you ever git in here; and who's along with you? Say, Hank, didn't I tell you I seen that chief of police down on the road that comes up here from Tatum? I bet he sneaked around, thinkin' we'd try to cut out that way, 'stead of in the direction of Stanhope. Reckon you don't ever wanter go there agin, eh?" "Shut up, Pim!" snapped the taller man, cutting the other short, much to Paul's regret; for somehow he just felt that the conversation was reaching an interesting point, and that if the tramp kept on he might have mentioned something worth while. Thinking that he had better be frank with his captors Paul started in to tell of the terrible storm, and the destruction of the camp, followed by the flight of the Banner Boy Scouts along the mountainside in search of a safe refuge in the shape of a cave. When he told of how they had found such a place through mere accident the two men exchanged looks as though they believed Paul were inventing his yarn as he went along. "What you say may be true, and again perhaps it ain't," declared the tall man called Hank; "and I reckon we'll just have to tie you neck and crop, so's to keep you from going back, and bringing a bunch of your tribe down on us. We're in possession here, and we don't want any more unwelcome guests. Pim, get a cord, and do him up!" "Oh! please don't. What I told you was the truth, every word. I only wanted to find out if there was another opening to this cave. Don't make me a prisoner, mister! Please let me go!" Paul shouted these words, and for a purpose. He wished to let his friends know of his predicament, believing that Jack would lead a rescue party instantly; and when three boys start to shouting in such a confined space as a cavern they can make enough racket to cause one to believe a whole army is coming. The two men were still struggling with their prisoner, and using more or less violence in forcing their wishes upon him, when there broke out a sudden series of whoops that rang through the place. Half a dozen wildcats engaged in a mix-up could hardly have created more of a racket than did those three lads as they hurried toward the spot where the lighted lantern showed them their chum in the hands of two hard looking customers. Hank took the alarm immediately. He seemed to be more timid than his companion, who showed signs of being willing to turn and face the advancing enemy until he noted that he had been left in the lurch. Then, growling, and showing signs of temper, he waddled after Hank, who bore the lantern. "Paul!" called Jack, as they drew near. "Here!" came the answer; and then the last match that Jack possessed was sacrificed in order that he might find his chum. The first thing that Paul noticed was another lantern on the floor of the cavern. "Here, light this, Jack, with that precious match!" he cried, after shaking the lantern to find out whether it contained any oil. "What under the sun does it all mean?" gasped the breathless Bobolink. Joe seemed to be just as anxious as either of the others to know, although he did not say a single word. "I happened on two men who were sleeping here," said Paul. "Notice the blankets and the things for cooking, will you? They must have had a hold-out here. Perhaps they chased Ted and his crowd out of the cave, because, if you look, you can see that aluminum frying pan Ward Kenwood used to carry around with him, and which he must have forgotten in his hurry to leave." "Did you know them, Paul?" asked Jack. Paul turned so that he could watch Joe while he replied. "I never saw the fellow called Pim before. He was a tough customer, too; either a regular tramp or a yeggman; and I guess from his looks he must have been ready for any game, from robbing a bank to stealing a farmer's chickens." "How about the other?" Jack kept on. "Well," said Paul, slowly, "you remember the man who drove past when we were at the side of the road that day, and whose wheel marks we saw all the way up here? That was the fellow. I had a good look at him. His companion called him Hank!" "Oh! my, then it is really true!" ejaculated Joe Clausin, apparently taken quite off his guard by this declaration on the part of the patrol leader. Paul turned upon him then and there, and looked serious. "Joe," he said, firmly yet kindly, "once you refused to tell me what you knew or suspected about this man. I hope you won't try to bluff us off again, now that you know he's here, and everything looks as if he might be the one who took your father's valuable papers." As he spoke Paul stooped and picked something up that had attracted his eye. It had been lying among quite a quantity of clothing and other things. Probably these had been secured in various raids on clotheslines, where the good people of the farming community were airing Winter garments before putting them away in camphor in the chest. "Look here, Joe, what do you call this?" Paul went on. Joe could hardly speak, he was so excited. "It's the tin box that my dad used to keep those papers in! Oh! Paul look inside and see if they're there!" he exclaimed, trembling with eagerness as he laid a hand on the arm of the patrol leader. But Paul believed that his friend was doomed to disappointment, even before he opened the strange little tin box, which had been stolen from the store of the feed keeper in Stanhope. "It's empty, you see, Joe," he said, turning it upside-down. "Look at it again, so as to make sure it's really the box." "Oh! I'd know it anywhere, Paul," declared Joe, warmly; "and see, here's where father scratched his initials on it. I remember seeing him do that one day, while he was talking to me. Yes, this is the box. But where can the papers be?" "In the pocket of that fellow, beyond a doubt. Who is he, Joe?" When Paul put the question straight to him, Joe could hold out no longer. Besides, a wild hope had probably sprung up in his heart to the effect that this comrade, whom nothing seemed to daunt, might perhaps be able in some wonderful way to help him get the papers back again. "I just guess I'll have to speak up, fellows," he said; "but please don't say anything to the others 'less my dad tells you to. You see, we've always held our heads up in Stanhope, and some people might look down on us if they knew one of the Clausin family was a convict!" "Oh! that is the man who was at the other side of the world. What relation is he to you, Joe, and where was he in prison?" asked Jack. "He's my Uncle Henry," answered Joe, reluctantly, "a younger brother of my dad's. Last we heard from him he was nabbed away out in Australia, for doing some bank sneaking, I think. Anyhow, he was sent to prison. Father told us not to mention his name again; and we never have all the time we've lived in Stanhope." "Oh! well," advised Paul, "I wouldn't feel so bad about it, Joe. I suppose he's changed his name now. So that if he gets into a scrape in this country nobody need know he belongs to the Clausin family. But Joe, how did he know about the value of the papers your father kept in that tin box?" "Well, I can tell you that, Paul. I've often thought it over; and the only thing that strikes me is this. Uncle Henry, being in this country after escaping from prison, was coming to see his brother, perhaps to ask him for help. He may have happened in just when dad fainted, with one of his attacks; and found the tin box on the floor. Perhaps he did strike dad on the head. No matter, he examined what was in that box, and must have counted it valuable, for he grabbed the whole thing, and lit out for the mountain till the chase blew over. Now you know as much as I do. But don't I hope we c'n get them papers back again." CHAPTER XXXIII WHAT PAUL FOUND--CONCLUSION "What if those men should come back again, and take us prisoners?" suggested Bobolink, anxiously. "Oh! I don't think they'll do that," replied Paul. "But it might pay us to look around, and see what they have here." With the lantern to give them light, the boy scouts began an examination of the piles of material which the tramp called Pim, and his companion had accumulated in their snug retreat. Food was found, also some bottles of liquor, which latter Paul took great pleasure in immediately smashing. "Say, look what I've found!" called Bobolink. It was a dangerous looking revolver, of the short-nosed, bulldog pattern. Perhaps it belonged to Pim, for it lay close to where he had been sleeping. And while he did not exactly like the looks of it, Paul felt that they would be safer from attack while they had possession of this weapon. "Here's a bottle of kerosene for the lanterns!" announced Joe, presently; he had been searching feverishly around, possibly in hopes of finding the papers; though Paul felt sure they were snugly reposing in the pocket of Hank at that moment, wherever he might be. It was finally decided to stay there for the balance of the night. They could of course have gone back, now that they possessed means for lighting their way; but somehow Paul did not feel anxious to leave the spot. Paul remembered what Pim had said about having seen Chief Billings on the road between Rattlesnake Mountain and the village of Tatum. Could it be possible that Mr. Morris, the lawyer friend of Joe's father, had influenced that official to start out in search of the papers? Had Mr. Clausin found something on the floor of his feed store that told him his wicked brother must have been there? These were things which gave Paul much concern as he lay there resting, and making good use of one of the blankets that had been found. He did not mean to sleep at all, for the responsibility of the entire little expedition rested on his shoulders, and he could not take chances. Lying thus, Paul tried to go over all that had happened since the camp lights went out at the sound of taps. Step by steps he advanced until the thrilling moment came when he made that stumble, and immediately heard the voice of Hank calling out to ask who it was. He could see just as plainly as though he were living the whole thing over again, how the man sat up, having thrown his blanket from him. Why, it was the very blanket that Paul had over and under him now, and which felt so comfortable. Then, with the match showing Hank a strange boy so close at hand, he had jumped to his feet. Paul could see him, as he lay there in the darkness; even to the soiled white shirt he wore. "Oh!" If Hank had been minus his coat at the time he jumped to his feet, he certainly had found no time to snatch it up when he ran away in such haste at the coming of the others. Why, possibly this was the very coat which Paul had doubled up, to serve him as a rude pillow. Investigation revealed the fact that it _was_ a coat. And when he pawed it over to find the inside pocket, he was thrilled to hear the unmistakable rustle of papers somewhere! Yes, wonderful as it might seem, there was a good-sized bunch of folded documents in the pocket. Could these be the lost papers that had been the cause of so much distress to Mr. Clausin? Even while Paul was thinking whether or not he should wait until morning to mention his discovery to the anxious Joe, because he did not wish to arouse any false hopes, he thought he heard a slight sound near by. What if Hank were returning to search for his coat, remembering how he had left it so carelessly when he fled, and what things of value it held? Paul was glad now that he had that revolver. He might not like to make use of it; but believed it would prove very valuable as a gentle persuader. They had found a box of matches among other stores the two men had collected in this retreat; so that there was now no scarcity of such things. Something touched him on the arm and sent a quiver through his frame, for he was worked up to a point where he felt as though he could just shout. Then he heard the lowest kind of a whisper close to his ear. "Paul!" It was of course his chum, who must also have been awake, and heard the same suspicious sound that came to his ears. Paul drew Jack's head close to his lips as he whispered: "I think it is Hank, coming back for his coat. I've been sleeping on it, and just discovered that there are papers in the pocket!" "Oh, what can we do?" asked Jack, also in that low tone, inaudible five feet away. "Get a match ready, Jack," said Paul, once more in his chum's ear; "and when I nudge you, light the lantern as fast as you can." "All ready!" came back, a short time later. Paul waited until he fancied that the unseen prowler must be groping in the dark very close to them. Then he thrust his elbow into Jack's side, causing him to grunt. But at the same instant a match flamed up, for Jack had been ready. "Don't you dare move a foot!" called out Paul, instantly covering a crouching figure with the weapon he had in his hand. Snap! Down went the lantern globe, and the cavern was brightly illuminated. It was Hank Clausin, just as Paul had suspected, and in his shirt sleeves too. He had come back for his coat, and walked into a trap. The other three boys were now on their feet, and acting under Paul's directions they tied the man's hands. Poor Joe did not take any part in this ceremony. His heart was too sore, though he also rejoiced because Paul told him he had the precious papers on his person. Hank pretended to be indignant at first, and claimed that he had done nothing wrong. Then he changed his tactics, and threatened the boys. Finding that this had no effect he turned to Joe, and pleaded with him. But Joe only shook his head, after looking beseechingly at Paul, and turned away. None of the party obtained any more sleep that night, for they feared that the other man might return to see what had happened to Hank. And so all of them sat around, talking in low tones, with the lantern burning, Paul keeping the pistol in evidence. Of course they could only tell when morning came by Paul's watch. Both Bobolink and Joe declared they were fully rested by then, and so the return march was taken up. Perhaps Paul was a little reckless, or it may have been he did not care very much. But it was suddenly discovered that the prisoner was gone! Paul did not say anything, but he could guess that Joe, for the honor of the family, had taken advantage of their being a little ahead, to set him free. "And boys," Joe said later, when confessing what he had done, "please don't tell anybody that he was my uncle. Just say he was a bad man, and that he got away. You see, we've got dad's papers, and that is all he wanted. I hope I never meet Uncle Henry again." And he never has to this day, for Hank and his evil companion, Pim, made haste to leave that vicinity, which was growing a bit too warm for their operations. Mr. Gordon was loud in his praises when he heard the story, though even he was not taken into Joe's secret. He declared that the storm had passed over, leaving a track of ruin in its wake, and that they could now leave the cave to return to Camp Surprise. This the Banner Boy Scouts did that morning. After all, the damage to their belongings did not turn out to be very serious, thanks to their ready wit in cutting down the tents; and before nightfall they were almost as comfortably fixed as before the blow. Joe wanted to go home because of the papers; but who should turn up while they were eating supper but his father, accompanied by Mr. Norris and Chief Billings, proving that the hobo had not made a mistake when he said he felt sure he had seen the latter on the way to the mountain by another route. Of course there was great rejoicing when Mr. Clausin found his papers returned. Joe took him aside and doubtless told him the full particulars; for the gentleman looked very grave, and when he returned, he went around, silently squeezing the hands of Paul, Jack and Bobolink. They knew he was thanking them for their promise not to say a word about his brother even to their home folks. With the neighborhood clear of all troublesome characters, it can easily be understood that the Stanhope Troop of Boy Scouts began really to enjoy their outing. Each day saw new pleasures and competitions. Boys who were backward in any of the various branches of work connected with the useful things a true scout should know, were tutored by Mr. Gordon, or in many cases by Paul and Wallace. Bad cooks were taught how to succeed by simple processes; and the secrets of the wilderness became as an open book to those who wanted to learn. Old Dobbin had managed to survive the storm, and when the troop started on the homeward route he pulled the wagon that carried their tents and other things. Needless to say, that as it was pretty much all down-hill, and the tremendous amount of food had vanished, the ancient horse found the going much easier than on his previous trip. So successful had their first tour proven that the Stanhope Boy Scouts began to talk of other outings which might be arranged later on; and which will be treated of in the next volume of this series, to be called "The Banner Boy Scouts Afloat; or, the Secret of Cedar Island." After all their adventures none of them came back feeling any the worse for the experience, and most of the boys declared they had had the time of their lives. To this day they have never really learned just what it was frightened Ted and his cronies out of the neighborhood. Still, the fact that Pim and Hank had possession of Ward's fine aluminum frying pan caused Paul to believe the boys must have run across the two men, and been chased away. Before the camp was finally broken up Paul discovered an old hunchback trying to steal more of the food. He was caught in the act, and it only needed a look at the patch on the sole of his boot to tell that he was the guilty one who had carried off their ham. He proved to be the fellow the boys had heard about, who made a living catching rattlesnakes; but as these were now scarce he was in poor circumstances. Paul forgave him, and when camp life came to an end they left him all the food that remained, proving their right to the name of Boy Scouts. THE END * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Several typographical errors in the original edition have been corrected. The following paragraphs are as they originally appeared, with corrections noted in brackets. Chapter IV ["]'Hold on. Don't forget you are a scout, and that you've got to look for the good that is in every fellow, they say," laughed his companion. Chapter VI "Oh! no, it isn't that bad a case," laughed Paul, amused. "We ought to be able to handle things without going to such extremes. Besides, you know, I carried a number of those stout sticks into the gym the other day, and William amused himself fastening a lot of cloth around them, so that they look like the stuffed club we used in the ministrel [minstrel] show last Winter. William is just itching to use one on some poor wretch. Perhaps he might get the chance to-night. So-long, Jack." "I'm afraid so," returned his comrade, slowly; "and just as like as not they expect to give us trouble while we're in camp. Well," and his voice took on a vein of determination that told how he was aroused at the thought of what might happen; ["]there must be a limit to even the forbearance of a scout, you know; and if they push us too far, we will have to teach them a lesson!" "Where's Bobolink?" demanded the leader,[.] According [Accordingly] he now took a little piece of wood out of his pocket, also a steel nail, and with the latter tapped several times upon the bit of veneering. Immediately they saw the sitting boy begin to fumble, as thought [though] he might be getting something out of his pocket. Then came an answering series of staccato taps, soft yet clear. "I'm your candy!'["] came the reply, as the figure stood up at attention. Chapter VII "What's the matter in there? Why don't you open up?["] called Ted, again rapping his knuckles on the wooden barrier. Bud Jones was in the most terrible predicament of his whole life. Beset by innumerable fierce foes as he believed within, there was that big bully outside, only waiting for a chance to give him a thrashing he would never forget. And the mysterious voice that sounded exactly like his own, startled him; for, not being a friend of Bobolink's he probably never heard him give those strange imitations when making his voice appear to come from some other preson [person]. Chapter XI Paul pushed to the front just them [then]. Chapter XIII "Two ought to be enough. Yes, bring a glim along; we may need it, for that moon isn't very bright to-night, and the trees make considearble [considerable] shadow." Chapter XV "He's gone, Ted!" whooped a voice; but it was not that of Monkey Egleston [Eggleston]; for that worthy was hardly in possession of enough breath to more than whisper. Chapter XVII "Sure I would, Paul. Please dont [don't] think I'm not wantin' to trust you, because I hold back. I want to think it all over by myself to-night. Perhaps in the mornin' I might tell you about it." Chapter XX "That," said Paul, "is one of our beliefs, sure enough. A scout must always be on the alert, or else he may miss many things that would give him valuable information. William, suppose you go on and spin your yarn in your own way. I saw what you did; but I'm glad I didn't cut in. Strike up, now, and then we'll move on again, for Dobbin is coming yonder.["] Chapter XXII "Say, that is mighty funny, "observed [funny," observed] Jack, after he had listened to the whole story. Chapter XXIV "Oh! rats!" exposulated [expostulated] his fellow scout. "Come off your perch, Jack, and talk sense. You make me think of an old Polly, just able to repeat things over and over. But to see us all down on our knees staring at that trail made me remember the alarm of poor old Robinson Crusoe when he found the footprint of the cannibal on his island." Chapter XXVII "Yes," interposed Bobolink, as he joined the group, and lowered his voice mysteriously; ["]I just heard Paul and Mr. Gordon talking about two more men that seem to be wandering at large up here. That makes three, you see, and none of 'em care to step into our dandy camp in the daytime. Boys, don't you see what an ugly look that has?" Chapter XXVIII Paul staggered after them. The wind was very strong, and it was impossible to walk in places without bending down almost to the earth. Besides, there seemed to be many braches [branches] torn from the trees flying through the air, so that it was perilous to life and limb to be abroad. Chapter XXIX This sort of an explanation just fitted in with what Paul had conjectured. He had found it hard to believe that Nuthin would be so frightened as to cling deperately [desperately] to the flying tent, when he knew that it was being carried off by the gale. He must have been an involuntary passenger of the airship that quickly ended its short flight in a neighboring tree. "That's good," declared Paul." "Feel [Paul. "Feel] around just above you. Can't you get hold of a branch or two, and hang on when I cut the rope? I want to keep you from falling when the support goes." The crash of falling trese [trees] could still be heard with every renewed furious blast. But just as Mr. Gordon had said, these sounds proceeded almost wholly from the lower region. That was the reason he declined to seek safety in that quarter, prefering [preferring] to push in the teeth of the blow, because the rocky shelters were to be found there. Chapter XXXI "Who's that?["] and accompanying the words came the scratching of a match. Chapter XXXII "Yes," roared the second man, shaking Paul vigorously, "pipe up and tell us that, 'less you want us to do somethin' you wouldn't like. What d'ye want with us? How'd you ever git in here; and who's along with you? Say, Hank, didn't I tell you I seen that chief of police down on the road that comes up here from Tatum? I bet he sneaked around, thinkin' we'd try to cut out that way, 'stead of in the direction of Stanhope. Reckon you don't ever wanter go there agin, eh?'["] "Here, light this, Jack, with that precious match!'["] he cried, after shaking the lantern to find out whether it contained any oil.